


The Last Shreds of Resistance

by flyingsolo_flyingfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsolo_flyingfree/pseuds/flyingsolo_flyingfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as he fervently tries to avoid it, Sam has imagined all the different ways it could happen, all of the ways he and Dean could finally give in. </p><p>As it turns out, it's a witch named Audrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Shreds of Resistance

**Author's Note:**

> It's only dubious consent in the sense that it's fuck or die. In spite of it being a sex-spell sorta thing, Sam and Dean discuss everything they're doing along the way, with one very brief exception that could maybe fall under the category of somnophilia. Set somewhere in canon, post season 6. 
> 
> I recently fell down the gay incest rabbit hole. Sorry, Mom.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be brief, just me dabbling in the fuck or die trope and dipping my toe in the Wincest waters. And then it took me over a month and wound up being over 20k words. OOPS.

* * *

 

As much as he fervently tries to avoid it, Sam has imagined all the different ways it could happen, all of the ways he and Dean could finally give in:

After a hunt, adrenaline too high, one step too close to death, fear and rage spinning sideways into unmitigated lust;

Drunk and careless, touches straying too far out of bounds until they cross into unchartered territory, neither of them even attempting to wrangle it back within their control;

Walking in on each other buried deep in someone else, the shock causing both to freeze, the awkwardness hanging heavy like a cloak for days and weeks until they crack, fraternal protectiveness morphed into something dark, something possessive.

 

In the end, it’s east bum fuck Utah and a witch.

xXxXx

Her name’s Audrey. She isn’t even malicious, or she certainly wasn’t trying to be. She’s young and cornered, being hunted by the psycho religious who think she’s the anti-Christ. Sam’s positive that there are far worse monsters they could go after—the priests molest young children, hey, _there’s_ an idea—but they chose her after catching a glimpse of a few of her tattoos, and once they starting poking around, they peered into her house and saw traces of magic paraphernalia. It turned into a full-blown manhunt.

Sam and Dean should’ve figured it out before they decided to break into her house, that the people who’d mysteriously fallen into deep comas were all members of that church. They really need to rethink their standard procedures, because it rarely leaves room for the grey areas. Audrey is definitely a grey area.

It’s broad daylight when they break into her house, it’s barely noon, but they’re counting on her being at work—a little digging revealed that she’s a secretary for an orthodontist. Sam and Dean are silent as they enter, they don’t step on any creaky stairs or traitor loose boards to notify her of their presence, but, well. She’s a witch. Turns out, she’s home today. And she knows the moment someone steps foot in her house.

It’s Dean who stops short, grabbing Sam’s forearm and digging his fingers in.

Sam whirls around, scanning the room for threats. When he doesn’t see anything out of place, he faces Dean to see if he’s bleeding from his eyeballs or anything.

Dean shakes his head tightly at Sam’s instinctual panic, and Sam almost breathes a sigh of relief but Dean’s still gripping his arm.

“I can’t explain it but I don’t feel right, something’s pushing at my brain—”

Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to finish explaining. “Where? Where, Dean?”

Somehow Dean understands what Sam was saying, even when his words are so vague.

“Below us. Downstairs, basement if there is one.”

Sam gives up on trying to be stealthy and he bolts, practically tumbling down the first set of stairs he finds and then he comes to a standstill, unsure how to descend farther.

“Stop!” he yells, his hands flying up in a gesture of surrender even if she can’t see him. “We’re not here to hurt you!”

He hears a broken noise, something that sounds like a sob, and following the noise, he’s able to locate the stairs to the basement.

“My name is Sam, my brother Dean is with me, we’re not here to hurt you but stop whatever you’re doing, please,” he calls as he takes one step down, then another, cautious now that he knows they’re dealing with anxiety rather than anything truly evil.

Dean approaches behind him and he speaks at a normal volume now.

“We’re going to come down the stairs. We’re not here to hurt you. We know what you are but we’re not here to hurt you.”

When he doesn’t hear a protest, Sam beckons for Dean to follow as he slowly descends into the cellar. It’s dark, and in his quest for something to hold onto, Sam comes upon a wall, and then a light switch.

“Is it okay if I turn on the light?” he asks, and they hear a muffled affirmation from behind them.

Sam flips the switch and turns toward the source of the sound, the source of Dean’s prickling skin. She’s on the floor, tucked into the corner where the two walls join, her knees pulled to her chest. She stares at them, taking shuddering breaths until she can find her voice.

“Who are you?”

“Did you stop what you were doing to my brother?” Sam counters, and he’s aware of the edge of aggression creeping into his voice but he can’t tamper it down. His protective instinct of his brother is always what gets him into trouble. It’s true for both of them, they are each other’s Achielles’ heel.

“I stopped, I think I stopped when you first yelled,” she says, pushing slowly to her feet. Sam looks back at Dean to confirm, and Dean steps forward now. Sam observes that the goosebumps on Dean’s arms are gone, so he stands back for a moment.

“Are they hunting you, Audrey?” Dean asks, taking a step toward her but she flinches back, eyes darting between the two of them. Sam curses when he realizes that Dean said her name without her introducing herself, and it probably freaks her out even more that they clearly know about her when, for all intents and purposes, they broke into her house. 

“Who are you?” she repeats, and Dean hears the trepidation in her question.

“I’m Dean. This is my brother Sam. We fight demons and monsters and ghosts.” Sam knows Dean’s being careful with his word choice, deliberate in omitting the word “hunter.”

“Audrey, can you tell us what happened?”

The girl swallows, fear dissipating but her guard still up.

“They’ve been after me for months now,” she explains, squeezing her eyes shut. “They figured out who I am, what I am, and they wanted me destroyed. I’m an abomination to their God.”

She opens her eyes and looks at Dean, and then Sam, her gaze pleading.

“I didn’t want to hurt them, I just wanted them to leave me alone, but they wouldn’t stop. They kept finding me. They tried to burn my house down, and I cast a spell, I didn’t want to kill them, I only wanted them to leave.”

Sam nods. That’s more than reasonable, and she’s clearly telling the truth.

“Are they going to wake up?”

“Yes,” she replies quickly. “Yes, they will, in a few weeks. Enough time for me to move.”

Dean’s taken on a more casual posture, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I’ve heard the northeast is pretty great. They’re all hippies up there. A bit cold, but probably better than—“ Dean cuts himself off with a bitter grin. “Better.”

Audrey huffs a laugh, relief so obvious in her expression that Sam wouldn’t be surprised to see tears. He probably wouldn’t blame her, either. Yeah, witches can be problematic, but seeing at this woman was just minding her own business, the locals really didn’t need to go all Salem-witch-trials on her.

“When do you leave?” Sam asks.

“Next week. You’re right about the northeast,” she says to Dean with a small smile, “I’m moving to Vermont. I’ve heard they’re pretty liberal out there. And I’ve always wanted to ski.”

xXxXx

They bid farewell to Audrey, wishing her the best of luck and hopping back on the road, heading into the red mountains. Sam somehow manages to convince Dean that, yes, it would probably be better if he drives, just in case. They hadn’t asked Audrey any specifics about what sort of spell she’d been casting, but they’re not overly concerned. Dean claims to feel fine, Sam is driving merely as a precaution. They’re probably gonna head to Nevada to breeze through Vegas before their next hunt, because, well, why the fuck not.

About an hour into the ride, Sam notices the sheen of sweat on his brother’s upper lip. He bites down on the knee-jerk _You okay, Dean?_ because it’s Utah, after all. It’s almost as hot as hell out here. And both of them would know.

But then, Sam looks over in time to see Dean grind the heel of his palm between his legs.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is somewhere between reprimanding and full-blown concern.

Two blotches of crimson appear like stains high on Dean’s cheeks and he closes his eyes, his head falling back against the seat rest, unable to look at his brother.

“Can’t stop it,” he says, churning his hips into his palm. “I can’t make it stop, it’s wrong.”

Sam very nearly drives them off the edge of a mountain in his rush to turn the car around. “Hold on, Dean,” he murmurs, and they make it back to Audrey’s in half the time.

xXxXx

Sam is out of the Impala before it comes to a complete stop.

“Audrey, it’s us,” he yells, certain this time to announce their presence before anything else can happen.

He’s marching up the front steps when she pulls the door open, her brow furrowed in concern.

“What did you do?”

She blanches and lets out a heartfelt, “Fuck, shit,” as she pivots and paces back into her living room. Sam follows her in, leaving the front door ajar to keep an eye on Dean.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t finish it and I genuinely thought—”

“You weren’t putting him into a coma, were you,” and it’s fact rather than question, at this point, the image of Dean panting and flushed seared into his brain. It’s something he can’t unsee.

“No. I thought it was two of the priests, I knew they were the ones who were gonna try to get me next, _shit_.”

“Why just Dean, why not both of us?”

“They hate gay people, right? The crazy Christians, the super conservative ones. They hate gays.” Audrey’s gripping the back of a wicker chair, the skin on her knuckles pulled tight. “I wanted to give them another scandal to worry about, something to distract them long enough for me to leave. If one of them suddenly tried to jump the other one’s bones, if only one of them felt it, it would be enough of a red flag. Their community would go berserk.”

“How do we fix it?”

Audrey stares at him helplessly, and the fear that Sam has been trying so badly to keep at bay is creeping in, dread squelching sickeningly in his stomach.

“It’s—it wasn’t—I didn’t even get that far. I didn’t have a spell I was reading from, it was mostly guesswork.”

“Guesswork?” Sam parrots, glancing over his shoulder to see Dean through the windshield, his head thrown back, and Sam barely processes the jerking of Dean’s arm before he spins back around.

“Tell me what you know, Audrey. Is there a cure? What will it do to him?”

“I don’t know!” she cries, pushing the chair away, verging on hysteria. “I wanted it to be drawn out. They do a lot of touching people when they pray, right? I mean, not _touching_ , but laying hands on shoulders and foreheads, I think… I made it so that human touch would temporarily stave the urge, but it would come back stronger, harder.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It was intended to prey on any lingering, forbidden thoughts. The priest I thought I was cursing, I mean,” she hastens to clarify when Sam bristles. “It was supposed to dig in, catch its claws on anyone he ever wanted, because that’s forbidden in the church. Lust, especially gay lust. So it’s only a man, it only could be a man the spell would catch, and I don’t really know the cure but Sam, I swear I never intended to make anyone truly sick, I just wanted to tie them up, I’m sorry.”

Sam breathes deeply through his nose, forcing rational thought to the forefront of his mind. He should know by now that he can only problem-solve if he’s some semblance of calm.

“Did you have any spells you were using as a foundation? Something you saw in a book, anything?”

Audrey darts away, down the stairs without a word, and Sam very nearly turns to check on Dean again before he remembers the state his big brother is in.

She’s back in a minute anyway, leafing through a book, slightly winded. “Here, this one. Arousal spell, something about forbidden fruit being the sweetest. But this was just what I was going off of.”

Sam nods tersely and snaps a photo of the page with his phone.

“Look, Sam. You’re… not off limits here.”

Sam stares blankly at her for a moment until he realizes what she means. She cringes as awareness washes over him, his mouth falling open.

“He may come on to you. I don’t know you or your brother well, but I know you’re close, and that may be all it takes.” Sam suspected it was a possibility, especially if the spell was meant to snag on taboo thoughts, but hearing it out loud is still pretty grim.

“Here.” Audrey shoves her cell phone into Sam’s hands. “Put your number in and take down mine. I’m going to try to do as much research as I can, see what I can figure out. If you find anything or,” she throws a wary glance over Sam’s shoulder, “if he gets worse, call me.”

Sam obeys wordlessly, already steeling himself for going back to the Impala, back to whatever the hell Dean is doing in there.

Phones pocketed, Sam is turning to leave when he asks, “Is there anything that will relieve it, while we’re looking for a cure?”

Audrey looks pained. “Touch, human touch. Uh, male human touch, I guess, since I steered it in that direction. It’ll hold it off but not forever. Otherwise, sedate him.”

Sam’s brain is already whirring, sifting through his knowledge of spells and antidotes, and he almost doesn’t hear Audrey’s sincere, “Good luck. Please let me know,” until he’s down her front steps. He gives her a halfhearted smile, thankful for her help but too worried to feel much else.

He approaches the Impala slowly, waits to see that Dean’s pants are, at the very least, on his body before he climbs in.

“How’re you holding up?”

Dean’s awake and coherent, still fidgeting but not touching himself. At least for the moment.

“I can’t do anything to relieve it.” Sam slams the door, turns the key in the ignition. “What did she tell you?”

Sam peels out of Audrey’s driveway and heads for the highway, vaguely remembering a sign for a motel about a dozen exits back.

“It’s a spell. She meant it for the priest.” The words rush out, and Sam feels the tips of his ears burn, can’t do a thing to stop it, so he just glues his eyes to the pavement. “Only one of them, so you’re affected, and I’m not. She wanted to cause a scandal in the church. It’s supposed to catch on any, uh, forbidden thoughts. And it’d only be forbidden thoughts about another man.”

Dean nods, fingers digging into his kneecaps, and Sam is practically standing on the pedal, the Impala chewing up asphalt vigorously. “Can I just find someone to go–?”

“It would have to be a guy, Dean. I don’t know how many openly gay men are roaming around in this area of Utah but my guess is, not very many.” His hands twitch on the wheel. “There probably aren’t gay clubs or anything around here, unless they’re underground.”

“Statistically, there have to be some,” Dean argues, but it’s a weak protest and they both know it. Finding someone wouldn’t be easy right now. Dean’s mouth is a tight line. “What’s the end result, if I don’t?”

Sam clenches his jaw, doesn’t say anything, and Dean exhales slowly. “That bad?”

“No, just. We don’t know. And we’re not gonna let it get to that point, anyway,” Sam says firmly, and Dean turns to look out the window, with an unconvinced, “Right.”

xXxXx

Sam drops his bag unceremoniously and pulls out his laptop, immediately settling in to do research. He digs through his duffle until he finds the charger, then searches for an outlet. It’s only after he finds one behind the rickety excuse for a nightstand that he realizes Dean is still standing in the doorway.

“Can I go for a walk or something?”

“No.” Sam’s attention is back on his laptop until Dean clears his throat a minute later. He still hasn’t entered the room.

“Can I at least get a separate room?”

“Dean, I told you, you can’t just pick up a woman at a—”

“No!” Dean cuts in, and when he speaks again, he sounds feebler than Sam’s heard for a long time.

“No, I just don’t really want you to see me like this.”

“Hey.” Sam shifts the computer off his lap and approaches Dean slowly, pulling his bag from his loose grip before clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

And it’s the truth. They’ve faced worse than this, even overlooking their excursions in hell. Sprains, broken ribs, stitches (Dean holds the record at 52 but it was a near thing, Sam’s highest is 49 and they both knew that number will continue to climb if they stay in this business). They’ve both been cursed and possessed, too many times to count. This isn’t any different.

Except it feels different, like it’s in a class of its own, especially when Dean pulls away from Sam’s touch as though Sam took a hot iron rod to his shoulder.

Sam and Dean have always communicated through touch. During hunts, when they can’t speak to one another, they brush arms or shoulders, and it’s almost unconscious at this point—the moment one of them senses danger, it’s immediately apparent to the other, just by the subtle changes in posture, in breath.

And, though Dean wouldn’t ever admit it, they use touch to ground each other. When Sam’s injured, Dean sewing him also serves as a balm for flayed nerves and overdoses of adrenaline. Sam can honestly say he’s never truly reflected on the role of contact in his relationship with his brother, but as he stares at Dean, as they stare down this curse together, it quickly becomes apparent that they’re going to have a problem.

xXxXx

Sam gives them a lot of credit, especially Dean, because they make it work for hours before things start to really fall apart.

Dean immediately flops onto the other bed and reaches for the remote. He originally starts with Doctor Sexy, but he must realize his error. Forget forbidden thoughts, Dean all but openly lusts over the title character (and a few of the male nurses too. Sam will admit, that entire cast is, well. Sexy), so watching a man he finds attractive under average circumstances is probably high up on the list of Really Bad Ideas. It’s with a disgruntled whine that he changes the channel all of three minutes later. He flips around until he settles on an action movie, complete with guns that seemingly never run out of ammo, explosions, and ample car chase sequences.

Sam’s deep in the trenches of his research, calling up lists of herbs and plants and anything known about these sorts of curses. It all contradicts, much of it speculation based on myth and folklore, and Sam feels like he’s grasping at straws. He pokes his head up every ten minutes to see how Dean is faring, and to Sam’s surprise, Dean makes it through the movie in its entirety. He’s got a hand on his crotch the whole time, absently applying pressure, but it’s a compulsion rather than a conscious move, and as long as he’s clothed and not jacking off three feet away, Sam can handle pretty much anything.

It’s only in the last twenty minutes of the movie that Dean’s composure begins to slip. He becomes restless, shifting his posture over and over, frustrated grunts escaping each time he finds little to no relief. He finishes out the film, though, for which Sam is thankful. It gives him time to try to think of what their next move should be. He texts Audrey to see if she’s had more luck than he has. She informs him that although she has very few other witch friends, she’s called upon the ones she does have, and they’ve provided her with some material. Apparently, a lot of it requires her to comb through the myriad spell books she owns to find snippets of the various spells she’d mashed together. “Mostly, it’s just gonna take time,” she replies, and Sam rubs his forehead warily. He doesn’t know how much time they’ve got.

But of course, as with anything else, they won’t go down without a fight.

Dean’s fidgeting worsens as the credits begin to roll, and Sam shuts his laptop. His voice is too bright, too forced as he says, “How about some physical exercise?”

Dean’s exhausted look of incredulity matches how Sam feels, but he waves a hand as he says, “Sometimes these shitty motels have gyms, right? It’s worth a shot!”

Dean still looks skeptical, but he rustles through his duffle, goes to the bathroom, and emerges wearing the loose shorts he sleeps in. His tee shirt drapes down over his crotch area, but Sam still keeps his eyes above Dean’s waist. Dean asks, “You gonna work out too?”, and Sam just shakes his head, claiming he’ll come with, but he’s still got research to do. In reality, the exercise would only serve to key him up even more, and that’s the last thing he needs right now. He’s definitely bringing his laptop, though, because if he watches Dean out of breath, flushed, exerting himself—even if it’s mostly innocent—his mind will go to places he’s determined to avoid.

They head out, the laptop tucked under Sam’s arm, Dean trailing behind as they cross the parking lot to the main office. Sam takes the lead, since Dean seems to have lost his cockiness since his, er, cock came into the equation.

“Hi!” Sam says, his voice dripping cheer, channeling the version of himself that he pulls out when he needs to extract information from mourning widows, or when he’s playing (God forbid) a priest.

“Do you guys have any sort of a gym, or gym equipment?”

The older man, who is clearly not the embodiment of physical fitness, looks at Sam like he’s sprouted a third head. Then, he seems to remember something, and he says, “Here,” leading them to a room behind the front office. Inside, there’s a TV, a treadmill, and a stationary bicycle.

“My wife got these, claiming she’d exercise during the long night shifts. I think she’s used them maybe once or twice. You boys are welcome to use them for an hour or two.”

Dean looks like the man just offered him a dozen different samples of pie. “Thank you,” he says, supremely relieved, and Sam turns to the man again and echoes the sentiment, saying, “Too many long car rides, you know how it is.”

The man just shrugs, clearly indifferent on the entire matter, and leaves them to it, closing the door behind him. Dean wordlessly climbs on the treadmill, rapidly flips through channels until he settles on one of the million different crime shows (Sam never understands why there are so many. They’re all the same, and they’re all wildly inaccurate, but people seem to like them, so whatever). Then he begins to run, continuing to increase the speed until he’s cruising along at a good clip. Sam is about to voice his concern, it’s been a long time since he’s seen Dean do any serious cardio, and he knows his brother is in fantastic shape, because it’s what the job demands of them, but he doesn’t know how Dean’s endurance is, and now is not the time to put it to the test.

But five minutes pass, then ten, then twenty, and Dean’s still going strong, so Sam cautiously submerges himself in things unrelated to the curse. The internet can be a black hole, swallowing hours and hours at a time on the dumbest videos, and this is one instance where he’s grateful. It keeps him mostly distracted.

After half an hour, Dean’s winded, dripping sweat—his cheeks, neck, and the top of his chest are flushed a ruddy red. But he hops off the treadmill and immediately crosses to the bicycle, and cranks that up, too. Sam bites his tongue. He realizes belatedly that they didn’t bring any water, and the last thing he wants is for Dean to pass out from exhaustion and dehydration (although Dean would probably argue that it’d be far less embarrassing than passing out from an hours-long erection), so Sam mumbles that he’ll be right back, and runs back to the room to fetch a bottle of water. When he returns and places it in the cupholder on the bike, Dean looks at him for the first time in hours to say thank you. He drinks three fourths of the bottle in a single pull, and Sam feels bad that he hadn’t thought of it sooner, but Dean also didn’t say anything, so he figures it’s hopefully not a big deal.

Dean rides the bike for at least another half hour before his breathing starts to sound really labored. It’s at that point that Sam gently speaks up.

“Do you think maybe you should take a break, at least?”

Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and for a minute, Sam’s sure he’s about to face down his brother’s wrath, but Dean slowly stops pedaling, lowering his head to rest on the handlebar, and Sam breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

Without any of Sam’s prompting, Dean takes the time to do some stretches, then some situps and pushups. By the time he collapses on the ground, it’s clear his body has been maxed out, and Sam unthinkingly stands to offer his brother a hand up before he remembers the way Dean shied away from his touch earlier. He catches himself, thankfully before Dean begins to clamber to his feet, so the slip up goes undetected. He just nods gruffly at Sam to indicate that he’s ready, and Sam leads the way out of the office, thanking the manager profusely once more on the way out.

Dean heads straight for the shower as soon as they’re back in the room, and when the door closes and the water begins to run, Sam collapses on the bed, burying his face in the comforter. He needs to stay with Dean, that much is obvious. Even if Dean dies of sheer embarrassment, Sam’s isn’t about to leave his brother to battle this curse alone, especially when the consequences are still unknown.

But as the hours have gone on and they’ve barely spoken a dozen words to each other, the tension has been building. Sam’s spending most of his energy trying to steer his brain away from thoughts of Dean with his hand on his dick, flushed and panting and desperate, but it’s the eternal paradox of The More You Try Not To Think Of The Thing, The More You Will Inevitably Dwell On The Thing. It feels like the air between he and Dean is charged, crackling with something Sam can’t even begin to identify. It feels dense, thick, and his skin has begun to feel too tight.

He knows that when Dean emerges from the shower, they’re probably going to have to resort to, uh, contact. At this point, they’ve pretty much exhausted all of their options, unless Dean wants to take a sedative and conk out. But it’s only dinner time, the sun hasn’t begun its descent to the horizon, and even if Dean is physically exhausted from the exercise, Sam doubts he’ll be down for being sedated unless it’s a last resort. Sam may eventually have to resort to using the syringe in their duffle, the one they keep in case one of them goes batshit crazy, even though the thought of using it makes him nauseous. Dean had to use one on Sam once, in the aftermath of hell and having his soul shoved back into his body. At that point, though, it was welcome, forcing him into a dreamless slumber. Sam doubts his brother would ever ask for such a drastic measure, simply because it’s a matter of pride, but at the same time, sleep may provide some relief for Dean, even if it’s only for a few hours.

Sam shifts, and the movement puts pressure on his half-hard cock. He barely manages to stifle a moan, and he lifts his head and glances toward the bathroom door. Over the hush of the water, he can hear the slick sound of Dean trying to bring himself off—the hitching of his breath, the pained noises he tries to muffle. Sam has half a mind to get up, crank up the cheap alarm clock radio, and try to occupy himself as best as he can while drowning out the sounds of his brother’s earnest attempt at masturbation.

But that would take a far nobler man than Sam Winchester. Besides, knowing he’s probably going to have to lay his hands on his brother once he’s out of the shower, even more tightly wound than he has been so far… well, it’s probably a good idea to clean the pipes beforehand.

Still on his stomach, he slides a hand down the front of his jeans, going straight for his dick. He doesn’t know how much time he has before Dean finishes his shower. Besides, this is simply a preventative measure. Sam doesn’t like the idea of having to do it; he wants to just get it over with.

With a single hand, he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, not bothering to really pull them down, just in case Dean emerges suddenly or, god forbid, Sam has to go in to rescue him or something. In his current state, having thoroughly exhausted his body, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if Dean passed out in the shower.

Sam bites on the corner of a pillow at the thought of his brother—still conscious—sprawled on the tile, water droplets tracking from his nipples to his armpit, from his nose to his ear. Sam has spent so much of his life trying to ignore the way his chest pulls tight when Dean gets out of the shower, still wet and dripping, pink splotches from the heat on his neck and chest, and finally, in this moment, he lets go of his inhibitions and lets the image fully hit him. His cock is now pinned between the bed and his belly, and there isn’t much room for him to move his hand, so he alternates between jacking himself with a tight fist and just rutting against the bed. His unoccupied hand grips the headboard, and when he turns his face into the pillow completely, he’s hit with the scent of Dean. He can’t stop the noise that he makes, and he tries to figure out how this bed can already smell like his brother, because they haven’t even slept in their beds yet. He remembers, though, that Dean had spent hours here while he watched his movie, and he’d been sitting against the headboard, back supported by the pillow.

Dean smells like home. It’s always been one of the most comforting things in the world to Sam, even when they were kids. When he was scared, he’d bury his face in his big brother’s chest and inhale deeply, and he was always soothed by the scent of his brother. Always.

Now, it’s an aphrodisiac, all of those times flashing through Sam’s mind—when Dean got in his face right after he first showed up at Stanford, yelling at Sam for saying something about their mom being gone, and he got a whiff of Dean, the smell unchanged from what he remembered, and he truly had wanted to go to that law interview but _fuck_ , he’d missed his brother; the first time he hugged Dean after he got out of hell, his nose shoved up against his brother’s collar, to prove that yes, Dean really got out, he was alive and real and present; the nights of Dean comforting him after Sam got out of hell and got his soul back and he had a century of memories screeching inside his head, the way Dean would shake him awake and place a hand tenderly on Sam’s cheek, dodging whatever blows Sam dealt while half coherent, repeating over and over that Sam was here, and safe, and eventually, Sam began to believe him.

Sam’s close after practically no time at all, hard and leaking against his shirt, and he squeezes tighter, rolling his hips against the bed, breathing in the smell of Dean. He feels shame, so much shame when the orgasm uncurls from the base of his spine, spilling over his fist and he bites back Dean’s name, but it doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t change that Sam just got off to the thought of his brother, that he has absolutely been affected by this spell even though he’s not the one cursed. He’s come with Dean on his lips before, but he’d always immediately deny it, repress it, tell himself that it didn’t happen or that it was just a fluke. Now he can’t, now he’s dirty and shameful and wrong.

He only lies facedown for half a minute, the high of orgasm fading quickly in the wake of his emotions, but at least he’s taken the edge off for the time being. He hoists himself up and uses his tee shirt to clean the mess from the bedspread, surreptitiously using the pillow to cover what he can’t get. In his haste, he doesn’t register that the water turned off, and he’s rifling through his bag for another shirt when he realizes that it’s gone silent.

“Dean? Everything okay?”

“Peachy. Be right out.”

Sam doesn’t even find a shirt before Dean’s out, he’s only had time to slide the syringe into his back pocket. Thankfully, Dean’s at least got a tee shirt and sweatpants on, so Sam doesn’t have to deal with him having a towel slung low across his hips. He’s scrubbing his hair with a threadbare towel, and Sam figures Dean must’ve given up on modesty because the sweatpants make it very obvious that Dean is hard.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam as he crosses the room (thankfully, to the bed Sam hadn’t been on) and he sits on the edge, elbows on his knees and his head between his hands. He looks defeated, and Sam’s heart breaks.

He abandons his search for a shirt, taking half a second to check and make sure he’s decent and that he’d remembered to tuck himself in and fasten his pants again. Thankfully, he did. He approaches Dean, slowing as he gets close, unsure, recalling the way Dean had bristled at his touch earlier.

Instead, he lowers himself to his knees and sits on his heels. Dean looks up, surprised, before he drops his head again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says simply, his voice rough, and Sam can tell that the admission is hard on his brother.

“Audrey,” he starts, then stops and swallows. Dean raises his head when Sam falls silent midsentence, and his eyes flick down to Sam’s throat, tracking the movement. In spite of the fact that he just came, Sam feels arousal pull at him like a riptide. “Audrey mentioned that touch could stave it off, for at least a little while.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “We already agreed that finding another dude around here is impossi—”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Sam strives for sarcasm, but his voice shakes. Dean’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and Sam feels the exact same way. He really hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he continues, but Dean shakes his head sharply just once.

“It’s fine, just… are you sure?” he asks, staring down at his hands instead of looking at his brother. Sam’s breath comes out in a whoosh.

Instead of answering, he says, “Dean, I want you to pay attention. Look at me.”

Dean does, eyes focusing, watching as Sam crawls forward on his knees. He hesitates, unsure where to touch, where is acceptable, settles for placing his hand on the juncture of Dean’s shoulder and neck. Dean draws a breath in through his nose like he’s been sucker punched, but he fights to keep his eyes on Sam.

“Does this help? Does it feel better, or worse? This is important,” Sam says, tongue thick as he tries to maintain control of the situation. It’s entirely in vain, ‘cause it’s _Dean_ , but he’ll cling to it by the skin of his teeth anyway.

Dean subtly pushes into Sam’s touch, and he’s gazing at Sam with so much reverence, a terrifying combination of unadulterated need and cautious hope.

“It helps, feels good.” He reaches up and freezes, just shy of covering Sam’s hand with his own. “Is this okay?” he asks, and the fact that Dean is still looking out for him, even in the face of a curse that’s ravaging his senses and fucking with his nerves, it’s enough to banish Sam’s hesitation.

“Yes,” he affirms quietly, his thumb stroking whisper-light across the hollow of Dean’s neck, and Dean doesn’t hide the way he moves into the touch. His hand comes down on top of Sam’s, keeping him where he is, which is ludicrous given there’s nowhere else Sam would rather be, but he’s not about to voice that out loud.

Dean reaches for Sam’s other hand, and now it’s his turn to move slowly, his eyes fluttering open to assess his little brother’s face as he moves their joined hands to the hem of his shirt. He waits, several breaths of silence and stillness and, when he realizes Sam isn’t going to flinch away, he sweeps their hands up underneath the worn cotton. All Sam can do is watch as Dean’s lips part on a sharp inhale, not quite a gasp but so damn close to one that Sam feels his pulse trip over itself. When Dean seems to understand that Sam isn’t pulling away anytime soon, he clutches at Sam’s arms to anchor himself while Sam palms his hip.

Sam can feel the tremors in his brother’s body, shaking like he’s going to fly to pieces, and all he wants to do is give Dean relief from the fever, to quell the furnace beneath Dean’s skin, and he shuffles forward, between Dean’s legs without even meaning to.

Sam’s hand near Dean’s neck drifts down to his arm, then beneath the fabric of his sleeve to the joint of his shoulder, while his other palm skims up Dean’s side, rucking up his shirt to his ribs.

“You can take that off,” he mutters, and Dean whips his shirt off so fast that under any other circumstances, Sam would’ve laughed. As it is, he’s trying not to ogle Dean’s bare chest. He’s seen Dean like this, probably seen him naked a thousand times. But this is something else, and as Sam slides his hands up his torso, Dean’s head falls back, his mouth moving wordlessly. Sam’s glad he got himself off before this, because if he hadn’t, he probably would’ve come in his pants by now.

It’s difficult to gauge the passage of time while Sam touches Dean. It could be minutes, it could be an hour. Dean is still shaking beneath his fingertips, and Sam tries several times to pull away, afraid he’s making it worse. Each time, though, Dean says, “No, don’t. Please. It’s helping, I swear.” He looks guilty, so angry with himself for breaking down like this and letting Sam see him at his most vulnerable. The final time Dean pleads, Sam resolves to touch Dean like he means it, to prove that this isn’t a chore for him, this isn’t creeping him out.

His touches become more certain, unwavering, roaming the expanse of Dean’s chest, curling his fingers at the small of Dean’s back. Something inside Dean must break, and it happens so fast it makes Sam’s head spin. Dean grips beneath Sam’s armpits and hauls him up, tipping them both back on the bed. Sam’s stronger than Dean is, and maybe he would’ve, should’ve resisted, but Dean caught him unprepared. It isn’t graceful, and Sam lands half on top of Dean, his right side on the bed, his hands bracing himself on either side of Dean’s body.

“Sorry, need more,” Dean stammers, wrapping his arms around Sam and pressing their chests together. Dean lets out a whimper, his nails biting into Sam’s skin, and Sam’s still reeling, trying to figure out how they got from point A to point B. His dick isn’t stirring yet, but another five minutes being this close to his brother and he’s fucked. He doesn’t know how long they can keep this up. He needs to help Dean however he can, but he won’t do it at the risk of consequences for his relationship with his brother.

Dean hauls Sam’s leg between his, and Sam bites his lip when he feels the hard line of Dean’s cock jutting into his hip. He raises his eyes, analyzes Dean’s face, and fear laces through his gut. Dean looks out of it, halfway delirious, animal instincts taking over. Sam remembers Audrey saying that human touch would hold the curse at bay, but only temporarily, and it seems like its hold on Dean has tightened. Sam doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if he’s helping or hurting Dean at this point, but he knows trying to put physical space between them won’t do any good either. This is the definition of a rock and a hard place.

(Ugh, Sam’s doing everything he can to avoid thinking about _hard_ places.)

Dean manhandles him again, pulling Sam up so they’re face to face, running his fingers through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Dean’s close, dangerously close, the distance between their faces shrinking by the second. Fuck.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, trying desperately to check his own desires and let the big picture smack him over the head with a frying pan.

Dean doesn’t want this. Sam’s here, he’s a human, he’s male, and Dean is under a spell. Sam cannot delude himself into believing otherwise.

Dean’s lips dust across his cheek and Sam summons enough willpower to turn his face before—

“Stop. This isn’t what you want. You’re cursed, remember? You have to remember that, please—”

To his surprise, Dean pulls away, one hand on the back of Sam’s neck. Just the look of him, the subtle thrusting of Dean’s hips that's completely unconscious, makes Sam shudder. He prays Dean doesn’t notice.

Dean doesn’t, actually, and it only takes a second for Sam to realize why. Dean, having the ridiculously thick skull that he does, has entirely misinterpreted Sam’s refusal.

He has tears of frustration in his eyes (and yeah, being keyed up for six hours definitely sounds agonizing), but more than that, he looks _guilty_. Sam knows his big brother would remove his hands altogether if he could, but Dean settles for rolling until they’re on their sides, and he puts as much distance between them as he can while still maintaining those two points of contact.

“I’m sorry, Sam. God, I am so sorry. This is hard enough without me forcing my fucked u—it wasn’t ever supposed to be like this—”

Dean turns his face into the pillow, knowing he’s babbling. But Sam has heard enough, anyway. It sounds too much like what he wants to hear, has wanted to hear for years, and if Dean keeps speaking, he may feed the sparks of hope in Sam’s chest, and that’s just not acceptable.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam says, sliding forward until their chests are pressed together again. Dean jolts against him, and his expression reveals how much he’s at war with himself.

“I don’t want to molest my baby brother,” he grits out, tense, trying to crawl into Sam’s arms at the same time he’s trying to pull away.

Sam huffs at how preposterous that is, and it’s his turn to try to hide his face, so he presses their foreheads together, both of their eyes slipping closed.

“You have my consent, don’t worry. It’s not an issue.”

Dean jerks away, eyes wide again, searching Sam’s face.

“What do you mean?”

Ah, shit, Sam thinks, ducking his head. He said too much. He isn’t even the one cursed. This whole ordeal is such a clusterfuck.

As luck would have it, Dean is very easily distracted right now. Sam lays his palms flat against Dean’s pecs, spreading his fingers. Dean’s quiet sound of relief spurs him onward, but Sam needs to ensure Dean won’t feel like he’s at fault when all of this is said and done.

He also needs to make sure Dean won’t hate him, either.

Sam drags one hand down Dean’s chest, and he feels the way Dean reacts to being touched like this, muscles shivering beneath his palm. Sam pauses when he reaches the waistband of Dean’s sweats, and he’s watching Dean’s face closely as he moves farther down, pressing his knuckles against Dean’s cock.

Dean gasps, his grip on Sam’s arm turning nearly painful. He’s still restraining himself, sweat beading on his temples from his effort not to surge into Sam’s hands.

“Dean.” Sam waits until he has his brother’s attention. “You think you could come if it were someone else doing it to you?”

Dean lets out a whimper, then he nods, just barely, fighting to keep his eyes open, to look at Sam.

Sam, who is crumbling fast, because Dean is hot and hard against him, brimming with want. It’s Dean tilting his pelvis toward him, a minuscule movement but Sam can feel it all the same, the way it pushes his fingers harder against Dean’s cock. He slides his hand back up over the waistband, wrapping the drawstring around his fingers absently, and Dean nearly growls out of frustration.

Sam’s fighting for control, too. He is not going to ruin his relationship with his brother over some stupid curse. He just won’t.

“Dean, I need you to think about this. Please.” His voice cracks around the word and it must register in Dean’s brain somewhere— _something’s wrong with Sam, Sammy’s upset_ —because his eyes are suddenly fixed on Sam’s face, so clearly trying to analyze the root of his pain, and it makes Sam want to cry.

“You’re cursed. You need relief. I can give it to you.”

Dean’s eyes widen. He seems genuinely floored that Sam would be willing to do this for him, and some other time, maybe Sam will be able to find humor in that—the twisted irony that Dean is completely taken aback that his baby brother is willing to give him a handjob. Oh, he’s clueless, doesn’t have an inkling of how much Sam wants him, for how long. Dean and Sam are so in sync on everything else, it makes the disconnect here seem abysmal, absurd.

Sam keeps one hand where it is, fingers curling around the elastic, and he places the other on Dean’s cheek, angling gently so that Dean’s eyes are level with his. “I need to know that when you’re cured, when you don’t feel this way anymore, you won’t hate me.” Sam knows he’s coming unglued, and his near-breakdown has sharpened Dean’s awareness, even in the haze of all of this.

“Sam. Sammy.”

Sam bites his lips and swallows hard, willing himself not to sob at the version of his name that always has belonged solely to Dean. When seconds pass and Sam’s still trying to keep himself together, Dean murmurs his name again, hushed, and turns his face, kisses Sam’s palm. It’s too tender—it’s too much, because it will never be enough, and when Sam forces his eyes open, Dean looks more like himself than he has since he first got a boner in the middle of God forsaken Utah. His eyes are clear, he’s holding himself still. When he sees that he has Sam’s gaze, he turns and deliberately places another chaste kiss to Sam’s heartline, to his life line.

Sam’s entire heart is about to rupture and overflow through his clenched teeth. He can’t fucking take this. He doesn’t know when he became so horrendously emotional, because he’s gone years without confronting these feelings. As soon as he caught a glimpse of what he may feel for Dean, even when he was young, he knew it was a problem. He shoved it down, way down, under lock and key, bolted up tight. Every so often it would sneak out sideways, especially growing up. It would be something as simple as Dean tousling his hair affectionately, or the way Dean would always look for Sam the moment he woke up, scrubbing sleep from his eyes as he took stock of the room, and he always gave Sam this sleepy, relieved smile when their eyes met.

Yeah, it’s probably his own damn fault for trying to repress his feelings for all these years, because it was bound to blow up in his face at some point. And now, as he’s closest to falling apart in his brother’s arms, Dean looks more coherent than he has for the past six hours. Of course.

“I know I’m not all with it right now, but I will not hate you when this is all over. It may be a bit weird that you know how to get me off,” the corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, sardonic humor that doesn’t quite take root, “but you’re helping me. I will never, ever resent you for that.”

Dean’s eyes bore into him, and he seems painfully honest, Sam wants to believe him, but can’t quite let himself. He knows he’ll crack anyway and do this all the same, in spite of how much self-loathing it will bring. It isn’t even because he’s got his living, breathing fantasy half naked in his arms. If it were anything else, any other circumstances, he would be able to turn Dean away. But Dean is in pain and apparently, Sam can help him. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Dean. Nothing.

It takes Sam a second to realize Dean’s still talking.

“Hell, I’ll probably hate myself for this, but not you, Sam. Not y—“

Sam can’t take it anymore, feeling as emotionally raw as Dean’s nerves are; if he has to sit on the metaphorical fence with this any longer, he’s going to fall to pieces. He doesn’t understand Dean’s guilt, he just doesn’t. Dean isn’t doing anything wrong. Sam has clearly given his consent, and if this night spurs Sam’s fantasies for the rest of eternity, well, Dean doesn’t have to know. He knows exactly how fucked up that is, and Sam has been to hell and back—he’s witnessed and experienced things that have the corner market on depraved and fucked up. And even so, this, this here, this is pretty high on the list of sinful things Sam has wanted; what Sam is about to get. So yeah, Dean’s guilt befuddles him, because Sam doesn’t have a goddamn clue what Dean needs to feel guilty about.

Hopefully once Dean comes, he’ll be able to sleep again for a little while, and Sam can go back to pretending he isn’t ass over heels for his brother.

Sam moves his hand back down with more purpose, cupping Dean’s cock and effectively shutting him up. Dean surrenders this time, sliding forward and clinging to Sam, grabbing wherever he can reach. Sam doesn’t deter him, but he pushes his own hips back, away from Dean, who hasn’t yet realized how impacted his baby brother is by all of this. Sam thinks fast, trying to figure out to the best way to do this and keep his own arousal under wraps.

“Here.” He pushes gently at Dean’s shoulders to roll him on his back. What really gets him is that Dean just goes, even when Sam has to let go of him for a moment to get himself situated.

What Sam wants to do is slot his leg between Dean’s splayed thighs, and let them rut against each other until they both lose it. Or he definitely wouldn’t mind going down on Dean, just to be able to taste him, even if it’s only once and it never happens again.

But things are already going to be really fucking weird when Dean comes out of this, and part of Sam’s job is to avoid making a bad situation worse.

Sam crawls between Dean’s legs but he stops when he’s eyelevel with Dean’s chest. That way, Dean’s cock is pressing into Sam’s stomach, and his own dick is pressed against the mattress. It’s an awkward position, but it will get the job done. Plus, down here, Sam won’t be tempted to kiss Dean.

Dean can’t stop moving his hands, tracing paths from Sam’s shoulders to his ribs, from his elbow to his wrist, fingers dancing across his throat. Sam can’t help the way his breath hitches, the way his heart is climbing over itself to get out of his ribcage, but he does everything in his power to keep Dean’s focus on himself. With almost steady hands, he pulls Dean’s sweatpants down. He’s not sure when his mouth turned into the fucking Sahara desert and he’s doing everything he can to ignore it, but at this point, he’s ready to admit to himself that he won’t be able to push this aside, or forget this. Even if his relationship with Dean survives this ( _it has to, it just_ has _to, they’ve been through worse than this, what’s a handjob between brothers?_ ), Sam will have to go the rest of his life with this—being so close to having what he wants, maybe what he’s always wanted, and knowing that it wasn’t real.

He needs to get this over with, so Dean can sleep, and he can open up a hole in the ground and disappear.

He’s careful in peeling Dean’s boxers off, trying not to catch the elastic against Dean’s cock. Six hours into an erection, anyone’s dick would probably be over sensitive. Dean grimaces, eyebrows pulling together, and Sam finds himself whispering soothing nothings into Dean’s hipbone as he bends his legs gently, one at a time to remove the clothing and toss it aside.

When he can’t delay the inevitable any longer, Sam glances between their bodies. Dean’s cock is flushed so deeply, it’s nearly purple. There’s precome smeared all over the head, dripping onto Dean’s stomach. When Sam glances up again, Dean’s biting at his bottom lip and the scarlet on his cheeks has spread to his ears and neck.

He’s embarrassed, Sam realizes faintly. It seems ridiculous as he’s fighting his own body’s instinct to press his hips into the mattress, just for some relief.

He nuzzles Dean’s stomach (even while his brain is telling him it’s too intimate of a gesture, because, really, he’s about to stroke Dean’s cock, so his brain can fuck right off on what’s too intimate), and he mumbles, “It’s just me, Dean.”

Dean’s head falls back against the pillows as he chokes on a strangled sound, and oh, right, the fact that it’s his little brother between his legs is probably repulsive to Dean rather than comforting. It’s a train of thought Sam’s trying not to touch with a ten foot pole, so he busies his hands instead.

He rests his chin on the meat of Dean’s thigh and lays one arm across Dean’s hips to hold him steady. He trails his other hand through the mess of slick on Dean’s skin from where his cock has been drooling obscenely against his stomach. Then, he slowly smears all of it up Dean’s shaft, starting at the base and dragging upward.

If he wasn’t holding Dean down, bracing half his weight against Dean’s abdomen, Sam’s pretty sure Dean would arch off the mattress entirely. He pistons his hips up, seeking more, and Sam won’t keep him waiting.

He wraps a hand around Dean’s cock and sets an easy rhythm, and he knows Dean’s been on a razor’s edge for far too long, but if Sam gets him off in thirty seconds, there’s a chance it won’t be enough to knock Dean out. It needs to be good, really good, enough to temporarily satisfy the ache.

He varies the pressure every few strokes, twisting his wrist and thumbing the slit, and Dean is writhing underneath him within two minutes. Sam’s hands trail down to palm Dean’s balls, then back, pressing his middle finger to the perineum.

It’s as though it’s a hard wire to Dean’s brain—something about that touch shocks through the fog of lust. Dean moans, “Sam,” and struggles to raise himself on his elbows, apparently wanting to watch.

Sam doesn’t want to take things that far. Or really, he does, far too much, but he’s trying to stick to the minimum, mostly for Dean’s sake when this is over, and a little bit for himself, too. This already hurts. The fewer memories there are to suppress, the better off he’ll be. Besides, Sam’s only got one hand available, the other assigned to supporting his weight and pressing Dean to the bed.

Still, Dean’s canting his hips forward, and when Sam chances a glance up, Dean’s sucking on his bottom lip, eyes at half mast, so Sam compromises. Without really thinking about it, he sucks the tip of his finger into his mouth. Dean whimpers. Sam looks up, hope and need coiled through his whole body, and Dean’s staring back at him, hungry, ravenous.

Sam releases his finger with a pop, unable to help the satisfaction that rolls through him when Dean’s cock throbs. Dean’s voice is strained as he says, “Sam,” and he intentionally tilts his hips up, splays his legs a little wider for Sam to have better access. Sam’s _thisclose_ to coming in his pants. He gives an aborted thrust to the mattress, and when he realizes that Dean saw, that Dean’s opening his mouth to speak actual words, Sam ups the ante.

He drags the pad of his finger across Dean’s hole, once, twice, circling the whorled muscle, and Dean draws a ragged breath, his legs beginning to tremble beneath Sam’s cheek. Yeah, this’ll work.

He alternates—slides Dean’s cock between the circle of his thumb and middle finger, squeezing lightly, then ghosts a finger over Dean’s hole, barely applying pressure. He completes the circuit three or four times before Dean starts to come apart.

“Sam, _Sam_ , I—”

He cries out as Sam draws a callused thumb around the head of his cock.

“Please, I can’t—”

When Sam raises his head and looks into his brother’s face, he sees the urgency and unrestrained, feral need.

Deciding he’s kept Dean on the edge for long enough, Sam spits onto his palm and jacks Dean off faster, less carefully. He doesn’t remember when Dean carded his fingers through his hair, he feels like that’s something he should remember, but he’s definitely not complaining, not even when Dean’s grip borders on painful. He sinks his teeth into Dean’s thigh, watches his jaw fall slack.

Dean’s wound tight, every part of his body tense. Sam draws himself up so he’s kneeling, figuring Dean is probably too far gone to notice Sam’s arousal at this point. Now he can use his other hand, and he strokes Dean’s leg, his side, across his chest.

“Let go. I’ve got you,” he commands quietly, and that’s exactly what Dean does.

His body locks up, he makes a strangled sound as he tries to draw air, can’t, and then he’s coming. Sam hates to take his eyes off the stunning picture before him, but he has to take a second, shove his face into the comforter and whimper, talk himself down from the edge. This is about Dean.

Dean’s orgasm is drawn out—right, _right_ , six hours—and Sam strokes him through it, watching the shadow of Dean’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, his mouth falling open, then snapping closed again when he bites his lip to hold back his whimper. Sam says, “Dean, it’s okay,” and it’s all he says before Dean abandons his attempt to stay quiet and he groans weakly. His body goes limp, unwound from the inside out, and he sinks into the mattress, trying to catch his breath. He’s glistening with sweat, come streaked across his chest, but the curse isn’t broken, can’t be, because he reaches out, groping blindly in Sam’s direction. Sam interlaces their fingers and Dean immediately stills, squeezing Sam’s hand. He’s pretty far gone, the curse roaring through him, having temporarily quenched the thirst. But for this moment, Dean’s at peace, even if it’s artificial and temporary. Sam’s glad one of them is, because he feels so many things, he’s going to burst at the seams.

As if Dean’s picking up on that thought, he tugs gently on Sam’s hand, barely opening his eyes but still seeking Sam’s face, and he slurs, “Thank you, Sam.” As though Sam was doing him a favor.

Sam shifts, moves to get up, but Dean’s brow furrows and his grip on Sam tightens, and Sam wants Dean to at least feel good until he gets to sleep; they don’t know how he’ll be once he wakes up, but Sam’s guess is that it will probably be worse. So Sam moves to crawl up, to lie beside Dean until Dean’s conks out. Dean’s already halfway there, maintaining his hold on Sam’s hand as his lips part and his breaths start to even out.

Sam is caught, then, a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, because this moment is one he will never have again, and he wants to stay, to hold his brother’s hand, to watch the little post-sex smile on Dean’s sleeping face knowing that he put it there. At the same time, Sam wants to run about three hundred miles away from here and not have to face Dean for a year. Maybe two.

Without releasing Dean’s hand, Sam moves to tug the sheets out from beneath Dean, to tuck him in properly, but he falters when he sees the mess on his brother's chest.

Sam has a thought. He leans down and nips at Dean’s stomach, scraping his teeth, and he watches Dean’s face carefully. Dean makes a contented-sounding gurgle in the back of his throat, not yet asleep but loopy enough that he must only register pleasure on the outskirts of his senses.

Sam stays where he is, nose pressed into Dean’s skin, inhaling the unmistakable scent of his brother. From there, it’s too easy, far too easy, for Sam to turn his head, for his tongue to dart out and lap up the mess on Dean’s chest.

And, after he does it, he pauses again, stilling to see if Dean will react, but Dean just sighs. So Sam doesn’t think after that. He just swipes his tongue across Dean’s torso, tasting his brother’s skin and sweat and come and it’s heady; Sam’s reminded of how painfully hard he is, the ache between his legs beginning to grow uncomfortable.

Sam works his way up Dean’s body, and he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses to Dean’s skin as he goes. He loses himself in it, God, how can he not? But as he reaches Dean’s collarbones, he feels pressure against his fingers and, oh right, he’s still holding Dean’s hand.

…Wait.

Sam goes stock still, realizing that Dean is squeezing his hand, and dread floods through him. Shit, he was just licking Dean’s body, while Dean was practically unconscious. Not only is that questionable as far as consent is concerned, it also really doesn’t help his notion of keeping the focus on Dean and not allowing his own feelings to muck things up.

Dean’s holding his hand with a vice grip, and Sam braces himself, aims for a poker face and misses by a mile, but he raises his head and looks at his brother.

Dean is wide-eyed, lips parted, and there are so many emotions on his face that Sam’s having trouble trying to identify them all. Sam can’t move, deer in the headlights, eyes glued to Dean’s, but he sees Dean’s other hand coming forward, trembling. Dean’s moving like Sam is an animal, like he’s going to spook and run away, and truthfully, he might.

Dean’s fingers brush against his jaw, then he cups Sam’s cheek, his thumb sweeping over the bow of Sam’s lip. Sam closes his eyes, overwhelmed, so overwhelmed, but when he hears Dean’s breath falter, he has to open them, to make sure Dean is okay—the desperation surely can’t be back that quickly?

It could be, Sam thinks, watching Dean’s pupils blow wide, watching him wet his bottom lip with his tongue. Sam follows Dean’s gaze, and, shit. Dean’s staring at Sam’s erection, the hard line of his cock straining against denim. He’s been caught.

“Dean, I’m—“ he stammers, but Dean presses his thumb to Sam’s lip again and Sam falls silent, unsure of what he could’ve possibly said anyway.

Instead, Dean threads his fingers through his hair, nails scratching against Sam’s scalp, and this time, Sam doesn’t stop the wounded noise that escapes from low in his throat. Dean sucks in a breath, and to his dying day, Sam will never know why, but when Dean tugs on his hair, he allows himself to be pulled up—into Dean’s arms, so they’re nose to nose.

Dean’s eyes still flicker all over Sam’s face, shock turning quickly to something resembling wild desperation, and Sam is far too captivated to notice that Dean has let go of his hand. That is, until he feels Dean’s palm, burning hot, rubbing his cock. Everything in his body is screaming that he needs to put space between them—miles, states, oceans—but he thrusts into Dean’s hand anyway, sharp, sharp arousal buzzing in his skull.

Dean growls, “Sam,” and then he’s closing the space between them, until their lips are pressed together, mouths open, and they’re just breathing, clinging to each other.

“It… it isn’t just me?” Dean whispers, and he pulls back enough to stare into Sam’s eyes. Sam shivers and all of the lies he should be telling his brother are stuck on the roof of his mouth.

Dean ducks in and licks across Sam’s lower lip, still not a kiss, but Sam’s panting like he’s running a marathon.

Dean rasps, “Push me away. Hit me. God, _do something_.”

And then he’s kissing Sam, repeating the words against his tongue, biting them into his lips. Sam cries out, _wrongwrongwrong_ and _yespleasemorealways_ both pounding beneath his skin. He knows that if he doesn’t do what Dean ordered him to do—if he doesn’t push back—he’s giving himself away. This is where he would punch Dean, if Sam had normal feelings, feelings like disgust, or immorality, feelings other than loving his brother in all of the ways he shouldn’t. He knows he should pretend. There’s a chance he could still convince Dean that his physical reaction to the situation is only because he hasn’t gotten laid in forever, it’s his body’s reaction to the proximity. While he’s berating himself, the window of opportunity passes. Sam allows Dean’s tongue to slide behind his teeth, and he’s trying not to engage, but he knows he’s kissing Dean back. He presses his arms into the bed on either side of Dean’s body, because the urge to touch is too strong, and Sam knows the instant he gets his hands on his brother, he’s done for. (As if he isn’t already.)

Dean, on the other hand, has come alive again beneath him, his hands roving everywhere on Sam’s bare skin, across his back, his shoulders, his arms. There’s an urgency to Dean’s touches that’s different from everything else that’s happened between them with the curse, and Sam’s hands are balled into fists, he’s holding himself above Dean’s body, and this has to stop, he knows it does, but he doesn’t know how, he can’t, he _can’t_.

He snaps out of it when Dean cups his cock again. His hips lurch forward, into Dean’s touch, but he breaks from Dean’s mouth, tries to roll to his side and away, he just has to move away—

Dean’s too fast, wrapping his legs around Sam, both hands framing Sam’s face so he can’t duck his head or look away.

“You weren’t cursed,” Dean states, and he says it like he needs to hear it out loud, to remind himself that it’s true. “She only got me, she said so.”

Sam’s heart is lodged in his throat as he watches the devastating hope that flashes across Dean’s face.

“It isn’t just me,” he repeats, and Sam wishes he could protest, tell Dean he’s delusional. Instead, he deflects.

“This is the spell, Dean,” he says firmly, and he just wants Dean to sleep, they just have to fix this before Sam does anything irreparable. “This isn’t what you want.”

“It’s exactly what I want.” There’s fire in Dean’s eyes, determination, and he looks furious even while he’s holding onto Sam, trying to bring them closer again. “Audrey’s spell was supposed to latch on to forbidden desire, right? It’s you, Sam. I want you, I have for too fucking long.” Dean arches his back a little, breaching the distance Sam is trying to put between their bodies, and Sam is at the end of his rope.

“I won’t take advantage of you like this,” he whispers, and Dean hears it for what it is: a white flag.

He shakes his head manically, adamant. “It’s not taking advantage of me.” His fingers travel from Sam’s hairline to his jaw and back again. Sam wishes more than anything that he had two syringes in his back pocket, that he could knock himself out, too, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with this. But as it is, he only has one, and he knows what he has to do. He holds himself up on one arm and retrieves it, and Dean doesn’t notice.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Dean says, and he looks as broken as Sam feels, he’s begging. Sam’s breath is rattling in and out of his body. He’s on the verge of sobbing.

“I do,” he admits, words he wishes he never had to say to Dean. He wasn’t supposed to know. He can’t lose his brother. He can’t.

He leans in again, stealing one last searing kiss, and he plunges the needle into Dean’s leg. Dean feels it, and Sam breaks away enough to say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over into Dean’s mouth until he goes limp, hands falling from Sam’s face.

Sam removes the syringe and climbs off the bed, pulling the blanket over his brother’s sleeping form.

He retreats to the bathroom, where he brings himself off with just a few strokes—it feels more like defeat than relief. Then, he cries.

xXxXx

Sam spends an hour poring over the computer and Audrey’s spells. He can match various components to their counterparts in a cure, a few herbs and holy water, but parts of the spell are completely unfamiliar. Besides, Audrey said that the spell she put on Dean was only based on this one. And to top it off, she didn’t even finish it, and she doesn’t remember where exactly she stopped.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, checking to make sure Dean’s still out cold and when Dean doesn’t stir, Sam picks up.

“Please tell me you have something.”

He hears Audrey’s muffled curse. “That bad, huh?”

“I sedated him.”

“Shit. Okay.” There’s a rustle of papers in the background. “Yeah, I think I have most of it. I know what I have to do for a counter-spell, but then I could only figure out a few of the herbs and roots needed for the second part of it.”

“What do you have so far?”

“Um, licorice root for the first part. Lavender, lemongrass, ginger, honey thistle, dandelion leaves.”

“That was what I couldn’t find! Of course it’s licorice root,” Sam muses aloud, chiding himself for his own stupidity.

“I have some of the herbs—“

“I have almost all of them. Can you send me the counter-spell you have?”

Audrey chuckles. “Lemme guess, you read Latin?”

“Tell me what I have to do.”

Audrey exhales, is quiet for a few moments.

“Do you have a mortar and pestle?”

Sam scrubs a hand over his face, agitated. “No, shit. The last time we had to mix something, the vampire we were hunting threw it against the wall and it shattered into a hundred pieces. We never thought to grab a new one.”

He can hear her hesitation. “I would come drop off supplies for you, I’m just worried about my house being invaded while I’m gone.”

Sam can work with that. “Would you meet me halfway?”

“Yeah. What’re you gonna do with Dean?”

Sam looks over at his brother’s sleeping form, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He doesn’t know how much longer the anesthetic will hold out for, but what choice does he have?

“He’s coming with me.”

xXxXx

Physically, manhandling Dean into the car is a breeze. The difficulty is touching his brother.

Sam puts boxers and pants on Dean, trying to limit contact to only what’s necessary. Dean doesn’t wake, but his body is slowly coming back online. As Sam is buttoning Dean’s jeans, Dean bucks into the touch, a small and reflexive motion that has Sam pulling his hands away until Dean settles again. He doesn’t bother with a shirt. It’s hot enough out here that going shirtless doesn’t raise much suspicion.

Lifting Dean from the bed isn’t too hard, either. Sam’s already got everything else in the car, so he’s not juggling a whole bunch of things at once. He’s careful, lifting Dean from under his arms and hoisting him into a fireman’s hold. He’s able to lock the door and get outside before he feels Dean wake up.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice is rough from sex and sleep, and Sam bites down on the inside of his cheek as he opens the door to the backseat. He lays Dean down on his back, tucking his legs up so that his feet are on the leather seat and Sam won’t amputate him with the door. Before he can, though, Dean opens his eyes.

“What’s going on?” His hair’s a mess, matted to his head from the pillow; his eyes are still glazed from the sleeping agent.

Dean’s barefoot—he won’t be getting out of the car, so Sam didn’t bother with socks or shoes. Sam hesitates, then he drops his hands to caress Dean’s ankle. Dean visibly deflates at the touch.

Sam shushes him as he rubs his thumb across a faded scar on the arch of his foot. “This will be over soon. Sleep, Dean.”

For once, Dean obeys.

xXxXx

When Sam turns into the agreed-upon parking lot, he sees Audrey waiting inside her car, glancing around anxiously to ensure she hasn’t been followed. Sam pulls up beside her.

“Okay, two options,” she says by way of greeting, hopping out and slamming the door behind her. “Either we can sit here and do this now, I can read the spell while you crush herbs, or you can take this back to wherever you guys are staying and do it yourself.”

Sam looks inside the bag in her hands. She has the ingredients in a plastic bag, a mortar and pestle, and what looks like a written-out copy of the incantation.

While Sam debates, another car drives by, slows down near the entrance to the empty lot, and the color drains from Audrey’s face. She’s got too much to worry about as it is. Decision made.

“You go home. You’re gonna be okay, right?”

Audrey immediately counters, “Are you?” She steps around Sam to get a look at Dean, who’s still sleeping in the backseat. His hips are beginning to twitch, though, and he’s half hard.

Audrey steps a bit closer, this time craning her neck to look up at Sam.

“Sam, did he… are you guys, y’know, okay?”

Sam doesn’t even know where to start, and when he doesn’t immediately reply, her expression becomes knowing, guilt and fear and dread written across her pale face.

“It’s not—” Well, it’s probably exactly what she thinks. “Dean and I, things are, uh. Complicated.” He winces at how that sounds. “This curse has been sort of a breaking point, I think.”

She reaches out and grasps his hand, squeezing lightly before stepping back. “I’m really sorry, Sam. I wish I could take it back.”

Sam shakes his head vehemently. “You didn’t mean to, I know that,” he says kindly. She doesn’t seem convinced.

He’s surprised Dean isn’t awake by now. When he turns to examine his brother through the window, his chest is flushed and he’s definitely sporting an erection. “I’ve gotta go,” he says, moving to step in front of the window so that Audrey doesn’t see Dean in this state. She takes another step back, making it clear that she won’t look.

“I need that mortar and pestle back!” She gets into her car with a smile, then calls, “Sam? You and Dean are gonna get through this.”

He really hopes she’s right.

xXxXx

They’re almost back to the motel when Dean wakes, for real.

Sam hears the grunt from the backseat, sees Dean sit up in the rearview. He pretends he doesn’t, but Dean’s leaning over the seat in seconds, reaching for Sam anyway.

“Sam?” Dean holds onto the back of the seat, asking permission to touch. Sam nods curtly, and he doesn’t know if he’s pained or relieved when Dean’s hand comes to his throat, backs of his fingers stroking gently.

“We’re almost home, Dean. I have the cure from Audrey.”

Dean freezes. “You’re gonna fix this?”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“Of course,” Dean says after a pause, but to Sam’s shock, he removes his hands and sits back. He’s silent for the rest of the ride.

Sam doesn’t even know how to react. The arousal seems to verge on painful for Dean, it’s all too intense and the relief is too sparse, but Dean’s honest to God brooding in the back seat. Sam can’t help but glance back at Dean in the rearview every few minutes, but eventually, Dean scowls at him, and Sam keeps his eyes on the pavement after that. He doesn’t know what to think.

It’s another ten minutes before they get back, and he sees Dean running his hands all over himself. By the pained look on his face, it doesn’t do much. When they pull up in front of the motel room, Sam cuts the engine. He stays facing forward as he inquires, “Can you walk?”

“I can fucking walk, Sam,” he spits, shoving the door open and slamming it harder than strictly necessary. Sam trails behind him with Audrey’s bag in one hand, keys in the other. He follows Dean through the door, closing it behind him, and they both stand still. The air’s thick enough to be sliced with a butter knife.

Dean scrubs his palms against his jeans, shifting, avoiding Sam’s eyes. Sam takes pity on his brother.

“Why don’t you sit on the bed. You crush the herbs, I’ll rub your back.”

Really, Sam would give anything to be on the other side of the room, but just by the change in Dean’s posture, Sam can tell he’s relieved. So he’ll suck it up.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, and Sam hands him the mortar, pestle, and the herbs Audrey assembled for him. “Just grind them into a paste,” he instructs Dean, who nods once. This isn’t anything new for them.

Sam crawls onto the mattress, kneeling behind Dean. He inhales deeply through his nose, trying to steel himself. This touch should not affect him the way it affects Dean. It shouldn’t. He doesn’t have the excuse of a spell.

Dean begins to crush the herbs, and the muscles between his shoulder blades begin to ripple with the effort. At least it gives somewhere specific for Sam to direct his attention. Dean starts when Sam’s hands fold over his shoulders, and then he moans, a low rumble that Sam can feel beneath his palms. All he can do is clench his jaw and try to focus.

Dean’s entire body is tense, Sam realizes as he begins to knead Dean’s shoulders, the top of his spine. He thinks the way Dean’s head falls back is probably less a sexual thing and more in response to Sam’s magical masseuse skills. Jess had been one of the few people to truly appreciate the full extent of it. Except now, Dean apparently does too.

“Fuck, Sam, your hands,” he mumbles, and Sam’s not sure his brother’s even aware he’s speaking, but the exclamation catches and pulls low in his stomach. He can feel Dean’s arm still rotating, so as long as he’s working, Sam will continue to touch him. This is probably the best way to go about doing things, seeing as Dean doesn’t last long without being touched, and Sam would need both hands to try to make the paste.

Although, he could be more productive. “Dean, I’m going to let go for a second. I’m just grabbing something from Audrey’s bag.”

“Hurry up.” Dean’s trying to sound authoritative and annoyed, but it just comes out gruff and disgruntled. Sam does anyway.

He pulls out the few sheets of paper, unfolds them in his lap, and resumes, digging his thumbs between the knobs at the top of Dean’s spine.

“What’re you doing?”

“Checking over her counter-spell. Mostly going over it for pronunciation, but also just to see what she came up with.”

They work in silence for several minutes, Dean grinding methodically while Sam mumbles Latin under his breath. It almost feels normal—the Winchester brothers working on a case, research and preparation and waiting, the quiet that descends while they’re both working. Still, it falls just flat of being routine, with Sam’s fingers weaving alongside Dean’s vertebrae. They touch, but not like this. He tries to convince himself that it’s not all that different from their normal dynamic when he feels Dean slow down, and his breathing speeds up.

“How’s it going?” Sam asks cautiously, stilling his hands. When Dean doesn’t respond, Sam rises up on his knees and peers over his brother’s shoulder. Thankfully, the paste is almost done, but the arousal has definitely gotten worse. A sweat has broken out across Dean’s shoulders, Sam’s fingers gliding slick over the freckles on Dean’s shoulders.

Sam moves to sit back on his haunches again, to try to figure out what to do, but Dean reaches back and grabs Sam’s thigh, keeping him where he is. It’s awkward, Sam’s crotch between Dean’s shoulder blades, and Sam swallows, tries to keep calm. This nightmare is almost over, he keeps telling himself. This is almost done.

“I know it’s more effective if I’m… touching you,” Sam hates the awkward phrasing, but presses on, “but does it still help if you’re the one touching me?”

Dean’s fingers are going to leave bruises where they’re digging in to Sam’s leg, but he grits out, “Yeah, I think so.” He uncurls his fingers slowly, as though it physically hurts him to do so. Sam has to think fast, to figure out how to do this so that he can keep his own damn boner uninvolved. Right, ‘cause that worked so well last time.

Dean’s still sitting hunched over, bare chested, awaiting Sam’s instruction. Sam tells him to hold on for a second as he grabs the remaining materials he needs—a flask of holy water and a cup for Dean to drink out of—and places them all down on the bed next to him. Dean’s sitting erect, tense, and Sam can see his hands twitching. He pulls his tee shirt over his head and tosses it aside, then sits cross-legged and surreptitiously covers his lap with a pillow. Smooth, Winchester.

“C’mere,” he says, and Dean exhales (had he been holding his breath?) as he turns, shoves the mortar and pestle into Sam’s hands, and crawls up the mattress. Sam doesn’t have a clue what Dean’s going to do, but it seems like Dean’s running purely on instinct, and he’s up on his knees, diagonally behind Sam, caressing Sam’s back. Sam tries to reduce his sensory perception to the scent of the herbs, the cool stone of the pestle in his hands. It’s a valiant effort, he thinks lamely.

He churns at the paste much faster than Dean did. Of course, it helps that Dean did most of it. But Dean’s getting more frantic. He settles cross-legged beside Sam, and suddenly he’s stroking Sam’s face, fingers quivering. He’s so gut-wrenchingly gentle that Sam shivers, his nipples hardening, and Dean must notice, because it seems to spur him on. He trails his fingers across Sam’s jaw, where there’s now a 5:00 shadow. Then he leans in, and in, and nuzzles behind the shell of Sam’s ear.

“Dean.” It’s half a warning, half a plea. He’s too close and Sam feels like his skin is shrinking, cotton left in the dryer for too long. His pulse drums in his ears. In a last ditch effort to stop this before it progresses, Sam reaches out, grabbing the holy water and the cup. He doesn’t dislodge Dean from where his nose is currently nestled beneath the hinge of Sam’s jaw, but each moment Dean stays there, inhaling the scent of Sam’s skin (and at this point in the day, Sam’s positive he doesn’t smell good anymore, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind), Sam’s resolve weakens bit by bit.

The herbs are crushed, at this point, and it looks a bit like guacamole but smells more like herbal tea on steroids. Sam pours holy water into the cheap paper cup, then scrapes a spoonful of the stuff in the mortar and stirs it into the water. Dean’s hands have drifted down to his chest, nails scraping across Sam’s nipple and he nearly cries aloud.

“Almost done.” His voice sounds foreign even to him. He has to wait for the concoction to fully dissolve into the water. But apparently, while the reassurance keeps his sanity in check, it serves to discourage Dean. He sits back, hands still on Sam’s chest.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?”

Sam keeps his eyes glued to the swirling green potion, noting that it’s only a shade off from the color of Dean’s eyes, and then internally scolding himself to get a fucking grip. “What do you mean?”

Dean’s hands pull gently on his shoulders, trying to rotate Sam to face him. Still gripping the cup, Sam turns, allows himself a glance at Dean’s face. He’s unprepared for the openness that he sees—Dean is stripped down, his expression vulnerable in a way Sam’s only witnessed a few times in their lives, usually when one of them is dying, or one of them is going to/returning from hell.

“I want you.” Dean’s voice is anything but steady, and he looks as much terrified as he looks determined. “This isn’t the spell talking. Sam,” He gazes imploringly into Sam’s eyes, and draws himself up. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when you went to Stanford. And I couldn’t figure out why it tore me apart so much. Then, when you came on the road with me again, it sort of hit me.” This is way more than Dean usually emotes, and Sam can’t help but wonder if Dean will regret saying all this when he’s cured, whether he’ll try to convince Sam that it was all a lie. But he looks so sincere, so fucking earnest and ripped open. Hope is a brittle thing in Sam’s chest, beating a frail tattoo against his ribs. Dean can’t mean this.

“When you died, I couldn’t be without you. I’m sorry, I couldn’t. And then I went to hell and never thought I’d see you again, and I can’t tell you what I felt when I was back on earth, with you. You went to hell and you took a part of me down there with you.” He makes a strangled noise. “I tried to do what you wanted me to, I tried to live a normal life. I don’t know, maybe I would’ve eventually been content with Lisa and a white picket fence, but something was always missing.”

Sam opens his mouth to intercept, to stop this before it goes any father, but Dean shoves at him, eyebrows pulling together. “No. Let me talk.”

Dean takes several shuddering breaths, and then he’s closing the space between them, even as Sam tries to pull away, back as stiff as a board. Dean won’t have it, and he chases until he’s back into Sam’s space. He leans their foreheads together, his hand draping across the back of Sam’s neck.

“Before all of this, I would’ve taken my feelings to my grave. I want you to be happy, and I’m not the person who can do that for you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Dean pulls back, clearly not expecting Sam’s assertion, and he searches Sam’s gaze. He grabs Sam’s free hand and presses Sam’s palm to his chest, eyes fluttering with the relief the touch provides. Sam can feel Dean’s heart pounding, fast like the wings of a hummingbird, like rain hammering down on the rooftop, and he wonders if it’s from the curse or the confessions.

Dean licks his lip, and when Sam’s eyes flicker down to his mouth, his older brother blurts out, “You kissed me back.” Sam nearly cringes, but there’s no way he can deny it. Faced by only Sam’s silence, Dean continues, “I did it but you kissed me back, you wanted me too, Sam.” He’s pleading. “I need to know. I can’t just drink this fucking potion and go back to how things were, not after I know how you taste, not after I know that maybe—”

Sam slides his hand up Dean’s chest and neck, cupping Dean’s cheek in his palm. There are unshed tears beading at the corners of his brother’s eyes. It’s that more than anything else—the way Dean is falling apart like this, letting Sam see it—that forces the words out of Sam’s mouth.

“You were my first jerk-off fantasy, the very first." Dean's jaw drops in a way that's almost comical. "I felt so dirty, I knew exactly how fucked up it was. I couldn’t look at you for an entire week. I think you and Dad passed it off as me having prepubescent mood swings.” Dean bites his lip, but he keeps himself quiet, waits for Sam to continue speaking.

“In psychology at one of the thousand high schools I went to, I was there just long enough to learn about infantile sexuality. If everything goes the way it should, a child’s sexual object transfers as they grow up. It’s normal for kids to idolize their parents or,” he swallows, “older siblings. But it’s supposed to go away. They find other teens at school, they find celebrities or porn stars or someone else to imprint their sexuality on.” He’s staring at a rip in the wallpaper, somewhere beyond Dean’s ear. “I kept waiting for it to happen, and it just. Didn’t.”

Dean looks almost like his normal self when he grins, but it’s all false bravado, a pained smirk, and he says, “Yeah, well, I’m sure it’d happen to anyone who had to grow up with me.” There’s doubt in the lines of his face, and Sam realizes why.

“It’s not about sex. You’ve always been my hero, Dean. Yes,” he cuts Dean off as he opens his mouth to butt in, “Yes, even now, after everything.” As usual, Dean isn’t inclined to believe him, and Sam would do anything to make Dean understand that he’s worthy of it, that he’s still the righteous man even with all of the blood on his hands.

“You are, Dean. And I don’t remember what it is not to want you.” He strokes his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. He wants to say _you’re everything_ , because it’s the entire truth, but Dean doesn’t communicate best with words, never has, and Sam feels like he’s peeled back too many layers already. It’s the same way they don’t say the L word. It’s not because it isn’t important, or it isn’t how they feel—of course they love each other, that’s a no-brainer. It’s just that words just seem so insignificant. They’ve died for each other. They fight for each other every single day. There aren’t adequate words, not in any language, for their relationship.

Dean’s breaths are labored. “Sam? Sam, after I drink that disgusting green shit, and you do the incantation, after all of this is over, what if I still want you?” He drifts forward again, eyes still holding Sam’s while there are only inches between their faces.

Sam reminds himself that now Dean knows everything there is to know, the last secret that still remained between them, and that as soon as this damn spell breaks, Dean will recant everything. He can only pray that Dean will stay. He feels like there’s something dragging its claws through his chest, tearing up his organs. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

Sam chokes on a whimper. This just fucking hurts.

“If you still want me, when this curse is completely out of your system, you can have me,” he promises, the words harsh, catching in his throat.

Dean makes a high-pitched noise and crushes their lips together. Sam doesn’t even try to fight it, opening willingly for Dean to take, just giving all of himself while Dean tries to swallow him whole. He kisses Sam like the world is going to end, like the sun’s burning out, and Sam tries to preserve the moment in his memory, his last kiss with Dean.

They break apart and gasp for air, and Dean takes the paper cup from Sam’s grasp, shoving the leaflets of paper into Sam’s hands. “Do it.”

Sam murmurs, “Drink when I’m done. Audrey warns here that although she’s not really sure how you’ll respond to this, there’s a good chance you’ll fall asleep after.” He’s still got a hand on Dean’s knee, can’t bring himself to let go as he begins to read, and phrases stringing together in a lilting rhythm. He’s aware of Dean watching him, waiting, and Sam looks up when he’s done with a nod. Dean drinks deeply, swallowing until the entire mixture is drained.

Immediately, he drops the cup and hisses, hands balling into fists. “Dean?” He watches horrified as Dean falls back onto the bed, convulsing.

“Dean, I’m here, I’m right here,” Sam says helplessly, reaching to touch him. As soon as he spreads his fingers on Dean’s tattoo, Dean’s mouth falls open and a dark blue light leaks from between his lips. He arches off the bed, head tipped back, and Sam can’t tell whether his brother is experiencing pain or pleasure (or maybe, fittingly, both). Once the last of the light has drifted away, wisps of cobalt curling toward the ceiling, Dean collapses heavily, half asleep already.

Sam goes to the bathroom to grab a washcloth and run it under cold water, and when he returns, Dean is wriggling out of his jeans. Sam freezes, afraid the curse backfired, but when Dean glances over, he looks nothing but weary, the same bone tired expression on his face that Sam’s seen after every hunt, every brush with death.

“Sam,” Dean mumbles. He pries his eyes open, his mouth trying to shape words Sam won’t allow him to say. He shushes Dean and drags the washcloth over Dean’s damp forehead. Dean sighs heavily, and for the second time that day, Sam drags the blankets up over his brother.

“We can talk later,” he assures Dean, mentally crossing his fingers behind his back.

After all, it’s not the first time he’s lied to Dean.

Dean surrenders to sleep like an old friend, and now, all Sam can do is wait.

xXxXx

Growing up, Sam was a perfectly normal toddler. He colored on the walls once or twice, spilled apple juice all over the sofa, threw a fit when he wasn’t allowed to get the Power Rangers action figures he wanted. John being mad at him was nothing new, he’d come to expect it by the time he had any sort of basic grasp on emotions and human interaction. But Dean, Dean was like a proud parent. He hung all of Sam’s finger-paint masterpieces on the refrigerator, beaming at Sam each time. Dean was kinder than John when Sam first had nightmares as a young kid and he wet the bed. He remembers hearing Dean and John argue, with John insisting that Sam needed to “man up” and Dean, eight-year-old Dean, telling their father how ludicrous that was. “He’s _seen_ the monsters under the bed,” Dean had spat, and Sam remembers the shock of Dean contradicting John. “If anyone has a reason to be afraid, it’s Sammy.” And Dean had stormed out, slamming John’s bedroom door behind him.

He’d scooped Sam into his arms, and Sam had wrapped all of his limbs around his big brother, even though he probably reeked of urine. Dean didn’t seem to care. He stripped Sam carefully, waited until the water was warm before he had Sam step into the shower, rinse away the remnants of his fear. He toweled Sam off with the fluffiest towel they had, one of the few left that had belonged to their mom. He only left Sam’s side to strip the bed and toss the sheets in the wash, then they climbed into Dean’s bed together. When Sam felt tears of shame pricking his eyes, Dean whispered sweet nothings into his ear, comforting him, telling him it was all going to be okay, nothing was ever going to hurt him, not while he was around.

Over the years, Sam’s couldn’t forget it, Dean’s patience with him when they were kids. And sure, they butted heads as Sam reached puberty, as Sam began to lash out at John while Dean wordlessly followed every order. But Sam knew, Sam always knew, that as long as Dean was by his side, nothing bad would happen to him, not if it was within Dean’s power to stop it.

Now, sitting next to his sleeping brother, Sam brushes sweaty tendrils of hair off Dean’s forehead, waiting for Dean’s complexion to change to something resembling normal, and all he can think is that he knows how to take care of Dean, just as Dean knows how to take care of him. Yet when it comes to caring for their relationship, they stumble around each other, grasping for something, some semblance of brotherhood, of partnership. It seems like all it takes is the smallest thing for them to come unglued. Perhaps, he thinks dully, it’s because they only have each other. Dean is the only person in the world who knows Sam inside and out. Maybe, when they struggle to communicate with each other, to patch up after stupid spats, it’s because what they have is too enormous—trying to handle something so precious is like juggling a hand grenade. There’s too much at stake.

Sam prays to any listening deity that this won’t be the thing to tear them apart for good.

xXxXx

Dean sleeps on and off for most of the next day, and Sam’s torn between watching him like a hawk, and trying to go pick someone up at the nearest bar, relieve all of the sexual tension built up for the past 24 hours, and let Dean take care of himself when he awakens.

When it comes down to it, though, there’s really no choice to make.

Sam passes the time watching shit reality TV shows. Dean only gets up a few times to piss, and he’s so groggy, he bumps into half the objects between his bed and the bathroom. He curses all of them, like they were placed there to personally ensure his destruction. Each time he trudges back and falls into bed again, Sam props Dean’s head up with one hand and forces him to drink a glass of water. These habits are so deeply engrained in both of them by this point in their hunting careers; learning to take care of someone who’s sick or injured is one of the very first things they learned, courtesy of Bobby, the first time Dad got seriously injured. Water, food every couple of days, Advil, sleep.

Sam orders dinner in, wraps Dean’s burger so he can eat something when he finally gets up. Dusk turns to night and Sam doesn’t ever bother turning the lights on. He’s tired, too, and he ends up climbing into bed hours before he ordinarily would.

He sets his alarm to go off every four hours, just so he can check on Dean and make sure he hasn’t developed a ghastly rash or anything. He resalts the place, the simple ritualistic nature of the task providing a bit of comfort. He tries to sleep lightly, to listen for any sound or motion from Dean. Usually, he’s good at that sort of dozing, enough to satisfy his body’s basic needs while still keeping them safe.

That’s why he’s surprised when he’s pulled from sleep suddenly, and at first, he doesn’t know why. Then he recognizes the prickling on his neck that occurs when he’s being watched, and he rolls to his side. Dean’s sitting up, his bare feet planted on the floor, hair mussed and shirt askew, watching Sam.

Sam’s tempted to make a snide remark, but instead pulls himself to sitting. “Are you all right?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He swallows. Sam hears the hitch click, watches his brother’s throat contract. Forces his eyes back up to Dean’s face, forces himself to wait for an answer.

“Did you mean what you said?”

Sam thinks through the previous day, the events before Dean fell asleep. He recalls the promise he made Dean, when Dean wouldn’t leave him alone about what would happen between them after he was cured.

He doesn’t want to presume, though, so he gingerly probes, “Did I mean what?”

Dean’s brow creases, and Sam marvels at how difficult it is for his brother to talk about his desires now in comparison to yesterday. The spell was merely a sex spell, not aimed at truth or emotion, but evidently, Dean is emotional during sex, which is so opposite of Sam’s impression of Dean that he has to take a second to wrap his head around it all.

“You—” Dean starts, seems to lose his way. His eyes map the room in frustration before falling back on Sam again, sitting up a bit straighter. “You said if I still wanted, after. That I could…”

 _Have you_. He trails off, and Sam doesn’t push him, can’t find a single word in the English language right now no matter how hard he tries. They stare at each other, faces barely lit by the florescent light streaming in from the parking lot, in between slots of broken shades.

The first words he finally does settle on are, “You better not be fucking with me, man.”

He doesn’t know what he expects Dean’s reaction to be, but it’s definitely not the defensiveness and hurt that he sees now. “Sam, I wouldn’t—I couldn’t ever—”

Sam closes his eyes, feeling like the room’s spinning around him. “You still…?”

Dean’s “Yes” is immediate and without hesitation, and Sam’s stomach plummets straight through the floor. He can’t bear to open his eyes, not yet, he’s still clinging to the shreds of rational thought that are keeping him grounded to the bed.

“Show me.” The command shouldn’t be audible, and when Dean doesn’t respond, he opens his eyes.

Dean just looks lost. “How?”

The words are molasses on his tongue, too thick. “You couldn’t get yourself off, before.” He watches the understanding dawn, hears Dean’s ragged intake of breath. “Please.” He’s begging and he doesn’t care. “I need to know it’s you.” The last sentence is a whisper, too close to being choked up.

Even in the dark, Sam sees all of Dean’s emotions flit across his face. Confusion, anger, and then embarrassment. Sam knows he’s asking a lot, and he half expects Dean to turn around, lie back down, and pretend the whole conversation never happened.

But Dean can still speak around the heat rising to his face, humiliation and desire crisscrossing through his body and singeing his nerves. “If I do,” he starts, stops, restarts. “If I do, will you finally believe me?” Sam can see how many words his brother is biting off before they reach his lips, and he wonders if Dean is doing it out of pride or if it’s because he’s afraid Sam doesn’t return his feelings after all.

Sam curls his toes in the disgusting carpet, but keeps his eyes on his brother. His voice is strong, sure. “Yeah. Yes.”

Dean says, “Okay,” and then nods, repeats “okay,” as if reaffirming it to himself. He seems unsure how to proceed at first, seems like he’s about to cross to Sam’s bed, and Sam tenses automatically. But then Dean strips his shirt off and lies back on his own bed, one foot dangling off the side, the other stretched out long. He’s only in boxers, now, and each movement reveals his anxiety—the slight shake of his hands as he begins to touch himself, his chest, his sides, his stomach.

Sam doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dean obviously knows he’s watching, but this feels too surreal. It feels like a dream, like he’s watching from outside his own body, and he nearly turns on the light just to be able to see Dean better. But he doesn’t want to break the spell they’ve both fallen under, and settles for taking in the planes of his brother’s chest in the yellow streetlight.

It seems Dean eventually settles into it, at least a little, because the hesitation slowly disappears from his touch, from his reactions. He rocks up as he spreads his fingers across his hipbones; he snakes a hand back up to rub at one nipple and then the other, and his head lolls to the side, toward Sam. His eyes are closed, and he’s blushing, so much that Sam can tell even in the dark. As much as Dean Winchester isn’t shy about giving way too many details about his sex life, this, Sam guesses, is a category all on its own. Jacking off in front of your brother while he’s sitting a stone’s throw away.

Sam’s in such a trance watching him that he’s almost startled when Dean’s hands drift down, below his belly button, flirting at the elastic of his boxers. Dean pauses, and Sam can hear him take several breaths, probably trying to calm himself, then he slips one hand under and begins to stroke himself. Sam bites his tongue to keep himself from protesting, from demanding that Dean do this naked. Technically, he didn’t specify, and technically, Dean coming in his underwear would still qualify.

Dean fists his cock for a minute or two before he must take pity on Sam. He lifts his ass off the bed and peels his boxers down, tossing them away. Sam’s breath catches, hiccups in his windpipe, and Dean must hear it, because he moans, and his cheeks flush impossibly darker.

Sam’s torn two ways, here. In a sense, this is almost better, because now he can see Dean, _really_ see him laid out in all his glory; this isn’t about Sam right now, and while he’s already hard and raring to go, his attention is solely on Dean. It’s because he’s not focusing on himself that he can see each and every detail—the whorls of Dean’s thumb as it circles the head of his cock, pressing to the tender spot just beneath; the way his forehead crinkles as the pleasure washes over him; the small white indentation left behind on his bottom lip from where he digs his teeth in. He’s beautiful, God, Dean is beautiful, and Sam already knew, has known his entire life, but this is something else. Sam’s breathing is just as intense as Dean’s, and there’s something sweet blooming in the center of his ribcage, fanning outward. Just to be able to see Dean like this.

That said, it still takes all of his willpower and then some to keep himself rooted firmly on the bed, to keep his hands clenched in the sheets.

He begins to worry when Dean seems like he’s teetering on the edge for long drawn-out minutes, his hips lifting, canting into the circle of his fist, his toes curled. Sam doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dean is still cursed, if this is all some farce—if Dean will finally come around in a day or two and look at him with disgust.

But then Dean opens his eyes, stripping his cock hard and fast, and he turns his head, zeroes in on Sam. Sam is so hard it’s nearly painful, and all he can do is meet Dean’s gaze, his pulse a rapid staccato. “Dean,” he whispers, his voice raw and wrecked, so much meaning densely packed into a single syllable. Apparently it’s enough, because Dean tenses, the movement of his hand stuttering, and then he comes, painting white stripes all along his stomach, his chest.

Sam watches, enraptured and frozen, knowing this is a moment he won’t ever forget, not as long as he’s sentient, because Dean is _breathtaking_. Sam’s rooted to the spot. It takes him at least a minute to fully realize that Dean came by his own hand. The curse is truly broken.

Which means that Dean actually wants him.

The force of that realization is staggering, and he’s dizzy, completely bushwhacked in the face of this new knowledge, that his desire is actually requited, that his brother doesn’t hate him. Quite the opposite.

Dean’s still in post-orgasmic recovery mode, and has spent the last minute of Sam’s life-changing epiphany trying to gain his breath back. He must sense the tidal wave of emotion that’s dragging Sam under, because he opens his eyes fully, stares at Sam with something too tender, too colossal for Sam to label or categorize, and fuck, he is in way over his head. But then, he always has been.

Dean moves first, reaching for Sam, breaching the space between them, breaking the tableau. Sam comes to life all at once, his restraint evaporating. He launches himself at his brother, climbing on top of him, aligning them head to foot. Sam’s hair falls in his face and Dean pushes it back, staring up with a small smile playing at his lips. Sam’s heart is going to burst.

“Took you long enough,” says Dean, playful words without any bite to them, and Sam just whimpers and kisses Dean hard, and it nearly kills him that Dean just opens for it. His hands come up to frame Sam’s face, and Sam sobs into his mouth. He’d be half embarrassed by it, but Dean’s meeting him with equal force, the same amount of passion trickling between his lips and all Sam can do is drink it in, flick his tongue against Dean’s and hold on for dear life. They’re finally on equal footing, they both consent to this, and Sam swears he’s never been more alive.

Dean’s stomach is still slick, and it makes Sam shudder, the way their chests glide together, the way they’re already messy. Dean’s not a spring chicken, he just came and doesn’t have the hormones of a teenage boy, but all the same, he’s arching against Sam, pressing closer and closer.

Sam breaks from Dean’s mouth in favor of learning his body. His hands and lips and teeth glide across the inside of one wrist; he bites at the socket of the other shoulder, caresses his thighs and calves, and then he pushes Dean to his stomach and continues—tracing his tongue along the tendons beside his knees, running hands lovingly over and over Dean’s ass, sweeping around to brush across the bones of his hips, pressing open mouthed kisses to the curve of his spine. Dean grips the pillow above his head, turns to whisper " _Sam_ ," his voice cracking. He rolls back over and Sam drapes himself across Dean’s body again. Dean clutches the back of Sam’s neck, bringing their foreheads together.

“What do you want?” Sam asks, peppering kisses to Dean’s temple, dropping one to the corner of his mouth. “Anything, anything you want.”

“You.” Dean takes Sam’s face in his hands to keep him still, so that he can hold Sam’s gaze as he tilts his pelvis up, and they both moan as Sam’s cock catches at his rim.

“Want you inside, want—”

Sam cuts him off, sucking Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. If Dean keeps talking, he’s going to come before he can get anywhere close to fulfilling Dean’s request. He has a feeling there will be plenty of time for them to get off simply rutting against each other, but after everything, they deserve this. Sam wants it so much he feels like he’s going to combust, like he’s going to burn right out of his skin.

It’s after another five minutes of kissing that Dean pushes him out of bed, sending him to go dig through his duffle for lube. He’d forgotten he had any at all, an old small tube stuffed into the corner of a mesh pocket, but he’s never been more thankful for his own foresight.

He crawls up Dean’s body with the bottle in his fist, detouring to tongue at the slit of Dean’s cock, to lap up the beads of precome that have gathered there. Dean bucks up, weaves his fingers into Sam’s hair and pulls him up. He croaks, “Not gonna last.”

Sam tries three times to flip the cap of the bottle because his hands are shaking so bad, and Dean doesn’t make fun, and as he waits he fastens his mouth to Sam’s neck and sets about marking Sam as his. Just imagining the teeth marks that will linger, the purple-blue bruise that will be visible for everyone, Sam’s fingers fumble on the cap for the fourth time.

He finally gets it and spills it all over himself, presses the pads of his fingers to Dean’s hole, too excited to wait. Dean hisses, it’s cold, but he fucks himself down anyway, little desperate jerks of his hips. Sam slides a finger in to the first knuckle and Dean’s head falls back as he consciously works to relax around the intrusion. Sam feels the muscle give, and then he’s sliding his finger all the way in, pumping in and out, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. Dean’s got a vice grip on Sam’s arms, and the column of his neck is bared as he moves against Sam, biting down on his lip when Sam adds another finger.

“Should see yourself,” Sam pants, twisting his wrist. Dean’s legs spread further, a sound tearing from his throat. “Should see yourself like this. God, you don’t even know.” He slides a third finger in, mouthing, “Okay?” against Dean’s jaw.

Dean just sounds strung out as he groans, “Sam,” and Sam grinds against Dean’s thigh in automatic response. He withdraws his fingers, and Dean’s the one who finds the lube in the sheets and slicks up Sam’s cock, his palm gliding up and down slow, so slow. Sam gnaws on the inside of his cheek and knocks Dean’s hands out of the way. There’s a brief pause as he considers how to proceed, but Dean tightens his legs around Sam’s waist and says, “Like this. Need to see it’s you.”

“’S me,” Sam replies stupidly, and he’s suddenly fighting back tears—Dean would mock him for at least the rest of eternity if he broke down and cried now. But Dean’s digging his nails into the back of Sam’s neck, staring wide-eyed up at his little brother, and there’s so much there, so many years and fights and painful words, so many wounds stitched and comfortable silences and hours on the road and Sam never, ever thought they’d be here.

He’s completely overcome, and it must be written all over his face, because Dean knocks their foreheads together, breathes, “I know,” into Sam’s mouth like a secret. Dean kisses him deeply, fusing their mouths together and Sam lines up, presses in as slowly as he can bear. He swallows Dean’s cry, sucking on his upper lip as he bottoms out. Sam wraps his arms around Dean in a tight embrace.

After a few moments, Dean moves first, grinding his hips in a figure eight, and Sam can only groan his brother’s name on an exhale. He withdraws, glides back in, and the sheer heat of Dean, the mere idea of being inside, of being as close as two people can ever physically be, it’s too much to bear. Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck as they find a pace together, Dean moving in precise counterpoint to Sam, and it’s so fucking good, better than anything Sam can remember.

It’s obvious that it’s going to be over far too soon, and Sam distantly thinks that perhaps he should be embarrassed by his lack of stamina. But Dean is writhing beneath him as they move together, and it’s like everything else they do. They _know_ each other. Sam’s sure he’s got lots to learn about his brother’s sexual preferences—and he wants to learn everything, all of the little spots and tricks to drive Dean crazy—they fundamentally already understand each other, even like this. Sam can’t begin to guess how Dean knows to bear down and squeeze around his cock, but it just works. Even with how sloppy it all is, want and disbelief fogging their movements, even with how quickly Sam feels himself unraveling, it’s them. That alone is enough to take Sam apart.

He pants open-mouthed against Dean’s throat, scraping his teeth beneath Dean’s chin. In vain, he tries to hold on, to make it last. But Dean traces Sam’s jaw with his fingers, applies gentle pressure to lift Sam’s head from his neck. He complies, and as soon as he meets Dean’s gaze, it’s over.

He comes so hard he feels it everywhere, fucking Dean through it, opening his eyes after the initial punch of it and watching Dean watch him. Dean grips Sam’s shoulders, and he’s looking up at Sam like he set the universe in motion himself. Still in the throes of his own orgasm, Sam gets a hand on Dean’s cock, hard and leaking between them. He roughly jerks Dean three, four times before Dean tumbles after him, coming for the second time in an hour. He whispers, “Sammy,” his voice fucked out and wrecked, and Sam half-laughs, half-sobs at it, the stupid kid version of his name that still warms him all over. It’s Dean that he’s buried inside, _Dean_ who’s shaking in his arms, and he’s never been so thankful in his entire life.

Sam doesn’t have a clue how much time passes while they come down, rolling his forehead back and forth against Dean’s collarbone, tongue darting out to catch the drops of sweat pooled there. He’s almost afraid to face the aftermath of this, because clearly, this is huge, and it definitely needs to be discussed. Of course it will change them. But then, Dean shifts beneath him, mumbles, “Gonna fall asleep if you don’t move, Sasquatch,” and Sam laughs, utterly relieved. This may change them, but they’re still Sam and Dean.

He withdraws carefully, and he doesn’t miss the way Dean cringes. He almost just lies back down, mess and wet spot be damned, but Dean swats his ass and says, “Go get a washcloth or something.” Sam grumbles but hauls himself out of bed anyway. He cleans himself up in the bathroom, then soaks the corner of a hand towel (making sure to wait until the water is hot, because Dean would probably kill him if he didn’t). When he comes back, Dean has climbed into the clean bed (it’s no longer Sam’s bed or Dean’s bed anymore, Sam thinks in disbelief), and Sam can only stare fondly for a moment. Dean cracks an eye open, says, “C’mere.”

He wipes Dean down gently, tosses the towel who knows where, and climbs in beneath the blankets. They arrange themselves so they’re face to face, legs tangled together, each with an arm slung over the other’s waist. They breathe in the silence for a few minutes, and Sam can feel the gears turning in Dean’s head.

Eventually, he drops a kiss to Dean’s nose, and Dean gives a small, contented sigh. Sam says, “Think out loud.”

Dean draws his fingers up and down Sam’s back while he tries to assemble his thoughts. Eventually, he meets Sam’s eyes with a wry smile and just says, “Now what?”

Sam tenses up before he can mediate his reaction, and Dean huffs a laugh and kisses him languidly, licking at the seam of Sam’s mouth until Sam relaxes again.

They part, lips sticking together, and Dean pulls back just a bit, enough to place his thumb on the divot of Sam’s chin.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Dunno about you, but I want this.”

Sam lets out a breath, closes his eyes and nods, his voice small as he replies, “So much.”

Dean wriggles a little, his toes traveling up Sam’s calf, and he adds, “And if we both find a chick at a bar we want, we can share.”

Sam can’t help it, he chuckles at that, because it’s so typical of his brother, and it eases the thing that’s clenched up in his chest. Dean’s deflecting can sometimes be annoying, but when the mood’s too heavy, he’s fantastic at easing tension, and this is no exception.

“You’ve got me, Sam. It’s only you. If that’s what you want.” Dean sounds a couple shades away from bashful, as though he’s not saying the best thing Sam’s ever heard.

All Sam can do is kiss him, a chaste peck, but he puts his entire soul into it. When they separate and Sam settles into the pillow, Dean nods to himself, says, “Okay, good,” under his breath. Sam tightens his grip. Sometimes, his big brother is so dumb.

xXxXx

It’s another few months before they end up all the way on the east coast, taking out a vampire coven wreaking havoc on the population of Burlington, Vermont. It’s when they’re out for a celebratory drink afterwards that Sam’s scrolling through his phone and he sees Audrey’s number.

“Hey, we should call up Audrey,” he yells, straining to be heard through the din of twenty-somethings. Neither Sam nor Dean realized that Burlington is basically a college town, with at least three schools in the adjacent area. They’re the oldest people at the bar by at least a decade, but they were too tired to try to find anywhere else. Besides, the college students seem pretty non-judgmental. Dean had groped Sam on the way in, a full, two-handed ass grab that was anything but subtle. But the bartender just raised her eyebrows with a laugh, and the two guys who’d witnessed it near the door whistled, one of them calling out, “Yeah man, get it!” So maybe those yuppie hippies aren’t so bad after all.

“Audrey!” Dean exclaims, leaning back on his stool, licking the beer froth off his upper lip. Sam can’t help but stare, Dean’s pink tongue leaving his lip shiny, and Dean smirks at him knowingly. He slaps Sam’s wrist, says, “Yeah, dude, text her. I wanna know how she’s made out up here.”

Sam does, and Audrey seems surprised to hear from them, but she’s free the following night, and it’s easy enough to convince Dean to stay an extra day. They spend the day in bed, and the sheets are a totally disgusting by the time they check out, but they’re long past being embarrassed by that kind of thing anymore.

They meet up at an Irish pub a few miles outside Burlington, and Audrey’s already grabbed a table for them. They split a huge basket of fries, and Audrey drinks cider until her cheeks acquire a lovely rosy glow.

“So, catch us up,” Dean says, thumping his fist on the table once. He reaches across Sam to sprinkle more pepper on the fries. Sam rolls his eyes, but Audrey makes a pleased noise, grabbing one and dragging it through ketchup contemplatively.

“How long did you hang around in Utah?”

“Not very. How did those psycho religious freaks make out? Did they ever wake up? Did they leave you alone?”

Audrey scoffs, popping a fry in her mouth. “Hardly. Yeah, they woke up. I had to put another two of ‘em under before I moved, though. They would not let up.” She gives them a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame, adding, “I ended up using a certain sex spell on them, though, when another two came around to try to break all of my windows.” She takes a swig from her cider, wagging her eyebrows at them, and Sam can’t help but grin back.

“How’d that turn out?”

She plasters on an expression of fake innocence and shrugs. “Let’s just say a scandal rocked the church. Especially because the priests were caught fucking like rabbits, and it was totally consensual. Mind, I only cursed one of them.”

Dean whistles appreciatively. “Yeah, talk about a scandal.”

She giggles, says, “They had other things to worry about after that. From what I heard, they tried at least three different exorcisms, and at least one of them involved eating a boar’s heart.”

Sam makes a retching sound, and Dean cackles, loud and boisterous. Audrey looks pleased with herself, and really, Sam can’t begrudge her that. He studies her in the dim light of the pub. For all that Vermont winters are harsh, the cold suits her well. Her face isn’t sallow anymore, and she’s taken on an aura of self-confidence. Sam didn’t even realize that when they met her, she kept her shoulders hunched forward, but now, she stands tall and proud, and it makes a world of difference. She’s completely different from the timid witch they encountered months back, and Sam’s glad to see the smiles that seem to come so easily for her now.

“Have you met anyone else, uh, like you around here?”

Audrey snorts at Sam’s wording, “Yeah, actually. I’ve made a few friends.” She presses a finger into the scattered salt and sucks it into her mouth, lost in thought. “It’s been good for me. I’ve been able to hone my powers, to get it all under control. It’s still gonna be years before I’ve really mastered it, but I feel much better now, knowing I’m not alone in all of this.”

Dean reaches across the table and tousles Audrey’s hair in a gesture that’s surprisingly fond. Sam’s surprised by the genuine grin on his brother’s face, his eyes shining proudly. “I’m glad it all worked out for you, kid,” he tells her earnestly, and Audrey beams back at him.

In order to counteract his non-macho emotional slip, Dean clears his throat, announces loudly that he has to take a leak, and wanders off. Sam just shakes his head.

Audrey kicks him under the table. “So. How’d everything work out? I’m assuming he recovered just fine, since I didn’t hear from you.”

“Yeah, yeah, he did. Slept like a teenager for a day or two, but he was back to normal after that.”

They’re quiet for a minute, both of them people-watching, before Audrey observes offhandedly, “Seems like you guys made out okay, too.”

Sam doesn’t reply right away, and she turns to study him, rolling the bottle of Angry Orchard between her palms.

“It changed some things for us,” he admits eventually, and she opens her mouth to inquire further when Dean comes back. It’s clear from his gait that he’s drunker than he originally thought, something he probably figured out during the course of his walk to and from the bathroom. He’s the sort who only truly figures out how gone he is once he stands up.

He slides into the booth next to Sam, stuffing three fries into his mouth, seemingly oblivious about the silence that’s fallen. Then, he glances up, looks Sam up and down, and says, “You should wear those jeans more often. They make your ass look awesome.” He fists a hand in Sam’s jacket and plants a sloppy kiss right on Sam’s mouth. Sam hides his amusement, feeling the heat rush to his face, but he indulges Dean and kisses him back anyway. Dean, self-proclaimed hater of excessive PDA, always gets ridiculously touchy when he’s drunk.

They break apart after a few seconds, Sam pulling back gently, and Dean grumbles but sits back. He then seems to recall that Audrey’s with them, and he winks at her suggestively, saying, “Sorry, what were you guys talking about?”

Audrey looks back and forth between them, lingering longer on Sam’s pink cheeks, and Sam worries for half a second that she’s judging them, but she gives Sam a small smile, the sort that crinkles her eyes. “Well, that answers my question.”

Dean throws a fry at her and she squeals and ducks. She buys them a round of chicken fingers when Dean whines that he’s still hungry, and she tells them that she followed up on her dream and is learning to ski. “I can almost do moguls now!” she exclaims, chest puffing up with pride.

Really, Sam thinks as he downs the rest of his beer, they owe a lot to Audrey. He and Dean have no family left, and their lifestyle has afforded them very few friends scattered across the country. But out of everyone, out of all of the relationships they’ve forged in their hunting careers, he’s really glad that they decided to follow up with her. He can probably count on two hands the amount of times things have all worked out, both for he and Dean, and for the other people involved in a hunt.

But this time, it turned out okay. More than, in fact.

Before they part ways, Sam gets up to go pay his and Dean’s tab. As he’s coming back to the table to collect his drunk brother, he overhears Audrey telling Dean, “This won’t be easy. You can’t afford to let anything happen. You take care of him, Dean, you hear me?”

She sounds serious, like she could be holding him at knifepoint or something. But Dean gets this dopey smile on his face and says, “Me ‘n Sammy? We’re gonna be just fine.”

That’s when Sam knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it’s true.


End file.
